


A M Y N T A S, 

A TALE OF THE WOODS. 




: \y 



AMYNTAS, 

A TALE OF THE WOODS ; 

FROM THE ITALIAN 
OF 



TORQUATO TASSO. 
n 



BY LEIGH HUNT. 



LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR T. AND J- ALLMAN, 

PRINCE'S STREET, HANOVER SQUARE. 

1820. 



TQ464-2. 



Oift 
V7. Xj. Sh.o©m^:9r 
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H. Bryer, Printer, 
Bridje-iUest, Blackfrian 



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DEDICATION. 

TO 

JOHN KEATS, Esq. 

THIS TRANSLATION OF THE EARLY WORK 

OF A CELEBRATED POET, 

WHOSE FATE IT WAS 

TO BE EQUALLY PESTERED 

BY THE CRITICAL, 

AND ADMIRED BY THE POETICAL, 

IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, 

LEIGH HUNT. 



PREFACE. 



In 1567, when Tasso was an aspiring young poet 
at the court of Ferrara, he was present at the 
representation of a pastoral drama, entitled Lo 
Sfortunato, the Unfortunate, which was written 
by Agostino degli Arienti, a gentleman of that 
city. To the sight of this drama, in which Verato, 
the Roscius of his time, was the principal actor, 
and which was performed with great splendour 
before princes and ladies, in the month of May, 
and perhaps in the open air, is attributed, with 
great probability, the first conception of the Aminta. 
Tasso was passionately fond of glory ; he had not 
Jong arrived in Ferrara, for the first time, in the 



Trni 



train of the Duke's brother, Cardinal Luigi, to 
whom the piece was dedicated ; his early epic 
poem, Rinaldo, had given him an additional grace 
of introduction, to a court that piqued itself on 
its taste ; and though the trumpet of his greater 
epic, the Jerusalem, which he had already begun 
to fashion, has carried his name to the ears of 
after ages with so much gravity and loftiness, he 
was at that time, by his own confession, and as 
his Miscellaneous Poems abundantly testify, a great 
lover of the fair sex ; sowing his panegyrics, and 
reaping his smiles, in all the sunny favour of 
southern vivacity. 

It was not, however, till six years afterwards, 
that the Aminta was produced. Our young poet, 
in the mean time, seems to have been too much 
in request, to render any new recommendation of 
him necessary; and therefore, in the intervals of 



pleasure and business, he went on with the great 
work, which he knew would add lustre to his 
name, let it be as brilliant for a young man as 
it could. His attendance, too, was much demanded 
at court ; and on all public occasions, where his ac- 
complishments could be concerned, he appears either 
to have been called forward by others, or to have 
made his way by the united warmth of his genius 
and ambition. He wrote hymeneal odes; he de- 
livered orations at the opening of Academies; he 
was appointed, in his twenty-eighth year, Professor 
of Geometry and Astronomy ; he sustained those 
alarming things called Amorous Conclusions*, in 

* Propositions respecting Love, npon which the speaker 
expatiated as upon texts. Tasso, then a handsome as well 
as ardent young man of three and twenty, publicly sup- 
ported fifty of these enamoured pieces of logic, for three 

a 3 



the presence of brilliant assemblages ; he visited 
several of the capital cities of Italy, delighting 
every one with portions of his manuscript epic; 
and he went in the Cardinal's train to Paris, where 
lie was highly welcomed by that unhappy prince 
Charles the IXth, whom the horrible massacre, 
afterwards perpetrated, has hindered the impatient 



days together. The twenty-first proposition, that " Man 
loves more intensely, aod with greater stability, than 
Woman," was opposed with great ability by a lady of the 
name of Cavalletta, whose name Tasso has put at the head 
of one of his Dialogues on Tuscan Poetry. There was no 
pedantry in this, but what was very harmless and good- 
natured. The times had at least enough faith in love to 
render the question interesting j and the ladies were not 
absorbed in the reputation of their stockings. 



xi 

world from calling to mind as a nature ruined by 
bad education, a poet when poetry was under- 
valued by his countrymen, and a sufferer from an 
early and remorseful death. 

At length, in 1573, and in the twenty-ninth 
year of his age, Tasso found leisure, during a 
visit of the Duke's to Rome, to produce his Aminta ; 
which he is said to have written in the course of 
two months ; an expedition that has been much 
admired. The poet, however, probably thought 
nothing of it; for if the impulse was upon him, 
he might as well have done it in two months as 
in twenty. He enjoyed his work; it was one of 
feeling, rather than thought ; and love is a quick 
traveller. At the return of the Duke, it was per- 
formed by his orders, and obtained the greatest 
applause. It soon spread to the other theatres of 
Italy, and continued so long and so highly in fa- 



xu 

vour as a performance at court, that sixteen years 
after, Tasso is reported to have gone secretly to 
Florence, on purpose to thank Buontalenti the 
artist, for getting up his play in a beautiful man- 
ner. He saluted him, kissed him on the fore- 
head, and then left the city without paying his 
respects to his admirer the Grand Duke ; a piece 
of romance, by which perhaps he chose to in- 
dulge himself in confining his respects to intellec- 
tual power, and in venting a secret spleen on 
those assumptions of worldly greatness, which had 
long begun to resent and worry his own. The 
success of Aminta was the last sunshine of his 
life. His temper was naturally impatient : he had 
met with the success, of all others the most dan- 
gerous to it, that of pleasing men who, with all 
his panegyrics upon them, could honour him more 
in the eyes of others than his own ; and envy 



Xlll 

soon completed that tendency to thwart and mor- 
tify him on the part of the court, and to be mis- 
trustful and dissatisfied on his own, which is suf- 
ficient perhaps to account for all that he after- 
wards suffered, without either rejecting or believing 
the stories of his passion for the Duke's sister, 
Leonora. Nobody was more likely than Tasso to 
fancy himself in love with a person so situated, 
whether he actually was or not ; but the same 
disposition which renders the fancy probable, 
renders fifty other causes of his adversity as 
much so. 

But to return to the Aminta — The Italians, 
among their other inventions, justly claim the 
merit of having originated this species of Drama, 
Eclogues, or detached pastoral scenes, are, it is 
true, as old as the Greeks ; and these, or even 
dramas in ordinary, may have suggested the whole 



XIV 

play. But when we come to consider what an 
infinite number of suggestions must have been lost 
upon the world, and that originality, in it's most 
creative sense, is nothing but combination, we 
shall not dispute the entireness of this pretension. 
Agostino Beccari, a Ferrarese, is the first person 
on record who produced a complete pastoral drama. 
It was brought forward in 1554, under the title 
of The Sacrifice, (II Sacrifizio,) and obtained him, 
as might be expected, the greatest applause. It 
is remarkable, that it was dedicated to the two 
Princesses, Lucretia and Leonora, who were then 
very young, and who were thus destined to see 
a new species of drama begun and perfected under 
the auspices of their family. The next pastoral 
play, also by a Ferrarese, was produced by a 
writer of the name of Alberto Lollio. Of the 
third, still a production of Ferrara, we have already 



XV 

spoken. Tasso's, far surpassing all three, was the 
next, and has stood without a rival of Italian 
growth ever since, though it has had crowds of 
followers. In 1614, a collection had been made 
of them amounting to eighty ; and in 1700, more 
than two hundred were to be seen in a person's 
possession at Rome. We speak rather from our 
own feelings, than from universal consent, when 
we say that the Aminta had no rival ; for it soon 
met with one in the Pastor Fido of Battista Gua- 
rini, Tasso's contemporary and fellow-courtier. 
Without entering, however, into a critical exami- 
nation of works not before the reader, the great 
majority of suffrages, both Italian and foreign, has 
always been in favour of Tasso's play ; and for 
our parts, we really can see no comparison be- 
tween the brief and touching simplicity of the 
Aminta, and the elaborate perplexity of it's osten- 



XVI 

tatious challenger. There are some beautiful pas- 
sages in the Pastor Fido, but they are inlaid, not 
of a piece ; and seem to have been pressed into the 
service from former compositions, in order to assist 
the weight of a weak blow. We are the less 
scrupulous in being summary upon this point, 
because Guarini, after plundering Tasso's work to 
swell out his own, openly challenged a comparison 
of his common-place Ode to Honour, with the 
divine one upon the Golden Age, of which he has 
ostentatiously repeated the rhymes. We are aware 
that this was not an uncommon practice in friendly 
answers of poets to each other ; but Guarini's Ode, 
in subject as well as manner, was a direct provo- 
cation to a comparison ; and when he quarrelled 
with Tasso, he re-echoed a sonnet of his in the 
same manner. Guarini, however, was really a 
clever man ; and having been softened, as well as 



XV11 

Tasso, by misfortune, afterwards took care of the 
publication of his miscellaneous poems during his 
mysterious imprisonment by the Duke; and re- 
collected him with admiration after his death. — 
As to Tasso's precursors, we are not acquainted 
with the two intermediate ones ; but to shew what 
an improvement either he or they had made, at so 
short a distance of time, upon the inventor of the 
Pastoral Drama, and at the same time to furnish 
another excuse for the mitigated conceits that he 
left remaining, it will be sufficient to lay before 
the reader the opening of Beccari's play. The 
speaker is a hopeless lover, « sighing like furnace." 

Orrida selva, in cui piangendo spargo 

Gli ardenti miei sospir, gli accesi lai, 

Le focose fiammelle ond* io tutt' ardo ; 

Del dimmi, onde avvien mai, che arida essendo, 



xviii 

Ed atta a pigliar foco, che piu tenghi 
Aleuna fronde o rarao alcuno o sterpo 
Ch' adusto in polve non si trovi ed arso ? 
Rispondi, e di: " Merce de gli occhi tuoi, 
Che lagriraando ognor un f'onte, un rio 
Si fan sempre d'intorno, e non dan loco 
A fiamma che m'incenda." 



Thou dreary wood, in which I pour around me 
These ardent sighs of mine, these hot complaints, 
The fiery flames with which I burn aU over; 
Ah tell me, how it comes, that being dry, 
And fitted to take fire, ye can retain 
One leaf, or bough, or twig, that does not turn 
To dust and ashes ? Thou dost answer and say, 
w Thanks to thine ever-weeping eyes, which shed- 
ding 



XIX 

A fount of tears, afford me such a stream 
As will not let the burning fire prevail." 

One is surprised how a man of talents could 
write in this way, only twenty-one years after the 
death of his countryman Ariosto. 

But Ariosto had shewn himself above a servile 
adherence to a court, which seems to have been 
fond of dictating in every thing; and after his 
death, inferior poets became subservient to it's 
fashions. They cut their imaginations after the 
court pattern ; which has always a tendency to be 
artificial. Natural and original genius frightens 
the instinctive sense of inferiority, that belongs to 
worldly power. For the same reason, the moment 
that ordinary patronage ceases to elevate the self 
love of the patron, and becomes a debt owed, 
rather than a gift obliging ; or the moment it 



XX 

ceases, in any way, to bind the person patronized 
as a vassal to his liege lord* it has an inclination 
to declare war. An impartial and accurate bio- 
grapher of Tasso, the Rev. Dr. Black, (Vol. I. 
p. 180.) cannot help thinking, merely from his 
investigation into the character of his author's 
patron, that " a considerable share of the obsti- 
nacy with which Alphonso persecuted Guarini, 
was owing to the dedication of the Pastor Fido 
to Charles Emanuel of Savoy, immediately on the 
poet's leaving the court of Ferrara." How much 
of Tasso's own adversity may not have resulted, 
in like manner, from his faithless odes to other 
reigning Dukes ! 

If the Aminta, however, so far surpasses it's 
Italian followers, we are bound to assert, on the 
other hand, and we can safely say we do it out 
of no national self-love, that in point of poetry it 



XXI 



is as far surpassed by Comus and the Faithful 
Shepherdess. With the former, which is of a 
more supernatural kind, it does not so directly 
come under comparison ; but compared with the 
latter, which is a complete sylvan work on the 
Italian model, it is as inferior, poetically speaking, 
as a lawn with a few trees on it is to the depths 
of a forest. It wants the crust of the old barks, 
the heaps of leaves, the tangled richness of exu- 
berance, the squirrels, glades, and brooks, the 
ancient twilight, the reposing yet vital solitudes, 
the quaint and earthy population, the mid- way 
world between men and gods; the old overgrowth 
and beardiness of nature, fit for the shaggy satyrs 
to haunt, and for the flowers and the budding 
nymphs to supply with an under-look of youth 
and joy. 

On the other hand, while it is still the work of 



xxu 

no ordinary young poet, it may be pronounced as 
superior to those celebrated productions in a dra- 
matic point of view, as it is inferior in richness 
of imagination. It possesses what no other pas- 
toral drama but one can boast, true dramatic skill, 
and an absolute flesh-and-blood interest.* The 
Lady in Comus is beset by foes too symbolical, 
and is too safe and contented in her own virtue, 

* The piece we allude to is the Gentle Shepherd of 
Allan Ramsay, a truly pastoral work, which would be 
valuable for it's little sunny pictures of scenery, if it had 
not the merit of dramatic handling, united with a certain 
home cordiality. The soft Doric dialect of our sister 
country runs through it with a pleasant tone of mixed 
archness and inexperience. Ramsay had evidently seen 
and profited by the Aminta, the commencement of which 
he has very happily imitated ; I should rather say, emu- 
lated. 



XXlll 

to interest us for her fate : and the Faithful 
Shepherdess, with all the more sympathetic beauty 
of her virtue, appears to us, nevertheless, too 
much like a conscious and laboured contradiction 
to Fletcher's ordinary ideas respecting women and 
chastity. Beaumont and Fletcher both seem to 
think, that if they make a woman chaste, they 
make her every thing; which is the mistake of a 
gross habit of life, and after all not a very sincere 
one. The characters of these heroines enable us 
to anticipate the becoming conclusion of their 
stories, and thus help to dullen the dramatic in- 
terest, even if it were more artfully managed than 
it is. But poetry is the great beauty of both the 
works ; more abstract and etherial in Comus ; 
more natural to the scene, and of a rich rusticity 
without meanness, in the Faithful Shepherdess. 
The persons in the Aminta, though pjacqd in a 



XXIV 

country famous for being misrepresented and fri- 
gidized in poetry, — Arcadia, — are all copies after 
humanity; the action is simple; the incidents ne- 
cessary, and happily interwoven ; the images, as 
Dryden has observed in contradistinction to those 
of Guarini, all rural and proper; the event at 
once new, unexpected, and natural. Lovers, and 
those who know lovers, will know how to account 
for what may seem exaggerations of feeling ; and 
as to the language, which has sometimes shared 
the objection made against those pastorals cut in 
paper, which have been seen in latter times, the 
poet, with a happy artifice, makes Love account 
for the elegance of it in his Prologue ; — 

Queste selve oggi ragionar d'Amore 
S'udranno in nuova guisa : e ben parassi, 
Che la mia Deita sia qui presente 



XXV 

In se medesma, e non ne* suoi ministri. 
Spirero nobil sensi a rozzi petti; 
Reddolciro nelle lor lingue il suono : 
Perche, ovunque i* mi sia, io sono Amore, 
Ne pastori non men die negli eroi ; 
E la disagguaglianza de' soggetti, 
Come a me piace, agguaglio : e questa e pure 
Suprema gloria, e gran miracol mio, 
Render simili alle piu. dotte cetre 
Le rustiche sampogne. 

After new fashion shall these woods to-day- 
Hear love discoursed ; and it shall well he seen, 
That my divinity is present here 
In it's own person, not it's ministers ! 
I will inbreathe high fancies in rude hearts : 
I will refine, and render dulcet sweet, 
Their tongues ; because, wherever I may be, 
b 



XXVI 

Whether with rustic or heroic men, 
There am I, — Love : and inequality, 
As it may please me, do I equalize ; 
And 'tis my crowning glory and great miracle, 
To make the rural pipe as eloquent, 
Even as the subtlest harp. 

It should be observed at the same time, that 
the language of the Aminta, though raised above 
rusticity into politeness, is looked upon in Italy 
as a model of natural and unconspired grace, 
amounting to the simple and naive. The thoughts 
are sometimes too artificially contrasted, and this 
produces a similar look in the words ; but the 
latter in themselves are always easy and natural ; 
and both the language, and the interest, as a 
whole, are so much what they are said to be, 
that although in the earlier part of the transla- 



XXV11 



tion I could not help feeling now and then a 
yearning out of the pale of the original for the 
more imaginative and sylvan wealth of Milton 
and Fletcher, my enthusiasm grew more and more 
absorbed in Tasso alone. The nature, as it always 
does when it is powerful, sufficed. Even the 
undoubted and ancient common-places, which are 
to be found here and there, — such as at the end, 
for instance, of the First Scene, Act the Third,— 
appeared nothing more than chalky pieces of 
baldness, over which you pass quickly upon the 
grass again. And it is to be said for those com- 
mon-places, that they were not the school-boy 
things they are now. The pastorals of the ancients 
had not been thumbed as they have been since ; 
the artificial taste of the court-critics, which could 
enjoy the exordium of Beccari's Sacritizio, ren- 
dered some of the worst things in the Latin poets 
b 2 



XXVlll 

but too worthy of repetition ; and Tasso was per- 
haps quite as much ingratiating himself with the 
learned and the polite in repeating them, as he 
was unwittingly leading them into a truer taste by 
the more natural and elder Greek cast of the rest 
of his poem. With all his epic leanings to Virgil, 
the Greeks were more in his thoughts when writing 
pastoral. His biographer Serassi possessed a copy 
of Theocritus which had belonged to him, and 
which he had scored over with marks and 
comments. 

It is from Theocritus that our poet took the 
Flight of Love and the rewards offered by Venus 
in the Prologue, the comparison of Love with a 
bee at the beginning of the Second Act, and the 
complaints of the Satyr in that soliloquy. Minor 
touches of imitation are also scattered about from 
Theocritus, Moschus, and Anacreon. The Satyr's 



XXIX 



curse upon mercenary love is from Tibullus. 
Thyrsis going to the capital, and describing his 
patron as a god, is Virgil's Tityrus going to 
Rome and deifying Augustus. The torn veil of 
Sylvia is that of Thisbe in Ovid. The young and 
truly lover-like little story of the Bee and Sylvia 
in Act the First, Scene the Second, comes from 
the Greek romance of Clitophon and Leucippe. 
So does the pretty moral fiction of the viper's put- 
ting away her poison when she goes to her lover. 
The origin of the enamoured Satyr is Pan and 
his followers ; but the rejected Polyphemic Satyr, 
unhappy in his love on account of the difference 
of his form, was first compounded by the in- 
ventor of the Sylvan Drama, Beccari; and it 
became such a favourite, that when Giraldi Cin- 
thio, the novelist, contributed his quota of Bosky 
Fable to the general stock, he made it up entirely 



XXX 

of Satyrs and Nymphs. It is called Egle, and is 
worth reading. There is a strong aboriginal taste 
of nature in it ; as if it had been written when 
gods, nymphs, and sylvans, had all the world to 
themselves. The idea of the cave in hell, where 
women are punished for cruelty to their lovers, 
(Act I. Scene I.) is from Ariosto. In Ariosto 
also, though I cannot refer to the passage, I 
remember finding the original of the pleasant 
fiction of the scene following, respecting the gos- 
siping chairs and walls at court. It is not in 
Tasso's style; and as if conscious of this, he 
introduces it with great felicity as a story told 
to perplex him by another. 

In the former of these passages, Ariosto is 
personally alluded to, as " the Great One who sung 
of arms and love." Thyrsis is Tasso himself; 
Battus is Battista Guarini ; and Elpino is II Pigna, 



XXXI 



a courtier and court-poet of that time, now for- 
gotten but for this mention of him. The Mopsus 
mentioned elsewhere, is understood to mean Speron 
Speroni, a harsh critic, who prophecied ill of the 
Jerusalem, and had too sullenly warned Tasso 
against going to court. I need not add, that his 
court prophecy was better than his critical one. 

The Choruses at the end of the Acts, for the 
most part, have a lyric majesty that announces 
the epic poet. They do not appear however to 
have been originally intended for the work. Some 
of them unquestionably were not. The one, for 
instance, at the end of the Fourth Act, is the 
first stanza of a magnificent canzone, which Tasso 
wrote thirteen years after, when he was in prison, 
on the nuptials of Don Caesar of Este with Donna 
Virginia de* Medici. Nor is it easy to see how 
it got into it's present situation. The Chorus at 



XXX11 



the end of the Third Act, though a beautiful, 
brief piece of music in honour of love, has almost 
as little to do with it's place ; and appears as a 
separate piece in the author's Miscellaneous 
Poems. No " exquisite reason" is to be seen for 
the apostrophe in honour of rustic love eloquence 
at the end of the Second Act. In fact, the first 
and last Chorusses are the only ones that are 
appropriate as well as beautiful. The former was 
destined to be without a fault of any sort. The 
latter is remarkably playful for Tasso's genius, 
and dismisses the audience smilingly like a modern 
epilogue. 



AMYNTAS. 

PROLOGUE. 

LOVE, DISGUISED AS A SHEPHERD. 

WHO would believe that in a human form, 
And underneath these lowly shepherd's weeds, 
There walked a hidden God? and he no God 
Sylvan, or of the common crowd of heaven, 
But the most potent of their greatest; — one 
Who many a time has made the hand of Mars 
Let fall his bloody sword ; and looked away, 
From the earth-shaker Neptune, his great trident ; 
And his old thunders from consummate Jove 

B. 



2 

Doubtless beneath this aspect and this dress, 
Venus will not soon know me, — me, her son, 
Her own son, Love. I am constrained to leave her, 
And hide from her pursuit; because she wishes, 
That I should place my arrows and myself 
At her discretion solely ; and like a woman, 
Vain and ambitious, she would hunt me back 
Among mere courts, and coronets, and sceptres, 
There to pin down my powers; and to my ministers 
And minor brethren, leave sole liberty 
To lodge in the green woods, and flesh their darts 
In bosoms rude. But I, who am no boy, 
Whate'er I seem in visage or in act, 
Would of myself dispose as it should please me j 
Since not to her, but me, were given by lot 
The torch omnipotent, and golden bow. 

1 herefore I hide about ; and so escaping 



Not her authority, which she has not in me, 
But the strong pressure of a mother's prayers, 
I cover me in the woods, and do become 
An inmate with its lowly populace. 
She follows me, and promises to give 
To whomsoever will betray me to her, 
Sweet kisses, or a something else still dearer! 
As if, forsooth, I knew not how to give 
To whomsoever will conceal me from her, 
Sweet kisses, or a something else still dearer. 
This, at the least, is certain ; that my kisses 
Will be much dearer to the lasses' lips, 
If I, who am Love's self, to love apply me ; 
So that in many an instance, she must needs 
Ask after me in vain. The lips are sealed. 

But to keep closer still, and to prevent her 
From finding me by any sign or symptom, 
b 2 



I have put off my wings, my bow and quiver. 
Yet not the more for that walk I unarmed ; 
Since this which seems a rod, is my good torch, 
So have I wrought deception; and breathes all 
Invisible flame; and this good dart of mine, 
Though pointed not with gold, is nevertheless 
Temper divine; and wheresoever it lights, 
Infixes love. 

And now will I with this, 
Pierce with a deep immedicable wound 
Into the hard heart of the cruellest nymph, 
That ever followed on Diana's choir. 
No shallower shall it go in Sylvia's bosom, 
(Such is the name of this fair heart of rock,) 
Than once it went, years back, out of this hand, 
Into the gentle bosom of Amyntas, 
When every where he followed her about 



To chace and sport, young lover his young lass. 
And that my point may go the deeper, I 
Will wait awhile, till pity mollify 
The blunting ice, which round about her heart, 
Cold honour has kept bound, and virgin niceness ; 
And wheresoe'er it turn to softness most, 
There will I lance the dart. And to perform 
So fair a work most finely, I go now 
To mingle with the holiday multitude 
Of flowery-crowned shepherds, who are met 
Hard by in the accustomed place of sport, 
Where I will feign me one of them ; and there, 
Even in this place and fashion, will I strike 
A blow invisible to mortal eye. 

After new fashion shall these woods to day 
Hear love discoursed; and it shall well be seen, 
That my divinity is present here 



In its own person, not its ministers. 

I will inbreathe high fancies in rude hearts ; 

I will refine, and render dulcet sweet, 

Their tongues; because, wherever I may be, 

Whether with rustic or heroic men, 

There am T, Love; and inequality, 

As it may please me, do I equalize ; 

And 'tis my crowning glory and great miracle, 

To make the rural pipe as eloquent 

Even as the subtlest harp. If my proud mother, 

Who scorns to have me roving in the woods, 

Knows not thus much, 'tis she is blind, not I ; 

Though blind I am miscalled by blinded men. 



ACT FIRST. 

SCENE I. 

DAPHNE AND SYLVIA, 

DAPHNE. 
And would'st thou then indeed, dear Sylvia, 
Pass this young age of thine 
Far from the joys of love? and would'st thou never 
Hear the sweet name of mother ; nor behold 
Thy little children playing round about thee 
Delightfully? Ah think, 
Think, I beseech thee, do, 
Simpleton that thou art. 

SYLVIA. 
Let others follow the delights of love, 



10 

If love indeed has any. To my taste 
This life is best. I have enough to care for 
In my dear bow and arrows. My delight 
Is following the chace; and when 'tis saucy, 
Bringing it down; and so, as long as arrows 
Fail not my quiver, nor wild deer the woods, 
I fear no want of sport. 

DAPHNE. 

Insipid sport 
Truly, and most insipid way of life ! 
If it is pleasant to thee, it is only 
From ignorance of the other. The first people, 
Who lived in the world's infancy, regarded 
With like good sense, their water and their acorns 
As exquisite meat and drink; but now-a-days 
Water and acorns are but food for beasts ; 
And grain and the sweet grape sustain humanity. 
Ah ! hadst thou once, but once, 



11 

Tasted a thousandth part of the delight 

Which a heart tastes that loves and is beloved, 

Thou would'st repent, and sigh, and say directly, 

*Tis all but loss of time 

That passes not in loving. 

O seasons fled and gone, 

How many widowed nights, 

And solitary days 

Which might have been wrapt round with this 

sweet life, 
Have I consumed in vain ! 
A life, the more habituate, the more sweet! 
Think, think, I pray thee, do, 
Simpleton as thou art. 
A late repentance is at least no pleasure. 

SYLVIA. 
When I shall come to thee with penitent sighs, 
And say the words which thou hast fancied for me, 
b3 



12 

And rounded off so sweetly, then, why then, 

The running river shall turn home again, 

And wolves escape from lambs, and hounds from 

hares, 
And bears shall love the sea, dolphins the hills. 

DAPHNE. 
I know too well this girlish waywardness. 
Such as thou art, I was ; so did I bear 
My fortune and my careless countenance; 
And so were my fair locks; and so vermilion 
Even was my mouth ; and so the white and red 
Was mingled in my ripe and delicate cheeks. 
'Twas then my highest joy (a foolish joy, 
Now I think of it) to go spreading nets, 
And setting snares for bird?, and sharpening darts, 
And tracking to their haunts wild animals; 
And if I saw a lover look at me, 
I dropt my little wild and rustic eyes, 



13 

Half blushes and half scorn. His kindliness 

Found no kind thoughts in me; and all that made me 

Pleasing to other eyes, displeased myself; 

As if it was my crime, my shame, my scorn, 

To be thus looked at, and thus loved, and longed for. 

But what can time not do ? And what not do 

A faithful lover, and importunate, 

For ever serving, meriting, entreating ? 

I yielded, I confess ; and all that conquered me, 

What was it ? patience, and humility, 

And sighs, and soft laments, and asking pardon. 

Darkness, and one short night, then shewed me 

more, 
Than the long lustre of a thousand days. 
How did I then reproach my blind simplicity, 
And breathe, and say, — Here, Cynthia, take thy 

horn ; 
Here, take thy bow ; for I renounce at once 



n 

Thy way of life, and all that it pursues.-— 

And thus I still look forward to the day, 

When thy Amyntas shall domesticate 

Thy wildness for thee, and put flesh and blood 

Into this steel and stony heart of thine. 

Is he not handsome? does he love thee not? 

Is he not loved by others ? does he alter so 

For love of them, and not for thy disdain ? 

Or is his fault an humbler origin ? 

Thou, it is true, art daughter to Cydippe, 

Whose father was the god of this great river; 

Yet he is son of old Sylvan us too, 

Whose father was the shepherds' god, great Pan. 

There's Amaryllis: — if thou hast at anytime 

Beheld thee in some fountain's glassy mirror, 

She is as fair as thou ; and yet he flies 

AH her delicious arts, to follow thee 

And thy poor scorn. Suppose (and yet heaven grant 



15 

The supposition never may come true) 
That wearied out with thee, he should repose 
His joys in her who sees so much in him : 
How would thy heart feel then ? or with what eyes 
See him become another's i happy in 
Another's arms, and laughing thee to scorn? 

SYLVIA. 
Pray let Amyntas with himself and his loves 
Do what he pleases. It concerns not me. 
He is not mine; let him be whose he chuses. 
Mine he can not be, if I like him not; 
And if he were mine, I would not be his. 

DAPHNE. 
Whence springs all this disliking ? 

SYLVIA. 

From his love. 
DAPHNE. 
A blessed father of a child so cruel ! 



16 

But come, come ; when were tygers ever born 
Of the kind lamb, or crows of lady swans? 
Thou dost deceive me ; or thyself. 

SYLVIA. 

I hate 
His love, because it hates my honesty. 
I loved him well enough, as long as he 
Wiohed nothing but what I wished. 

DAPHNE. 

Thou didst wish 
Thine evil. All that he desired of thee 
Was for thee too. 

SYLVIA. 
Daphne, be still, I pray ; 
Or speak of something else, if thou would'st have 
An answer. 

DAPHNE. 
Oh pray mark her airs ! Pray mark 



17 

The scornful little lass ! Give me, however, 
One answer more. Suppose another loved thee, 
Would'st thou receive his love in the same way? 

SYLVIA. 
In the same way would I receive all love, 
That came to undermine my honesty; 
For what thou callest lover, I call enemy. 

DAPHNE. 
And callest thou the sheep then 
The enemy of his female ? 
The bull of the fair heifer ? 
Or of his dove the turtle ? 
And callest thou sweet spring-time 
The time of rage and enmity, 
Which breathing now and smiling 
Reminds the whole creation, 
The animal, the human, 
Of loving ! Dost thou see not 



18 

How all things are enamoured 

Of this enamourer, rich with joy and health ? 

Observe that turtle dove, 

How toying with his dulcet murmuring 

He kisses his companion. Hear that nightingale, 

Who goes from bough to bough, 

Singing with his loud heart, I love ! I love ! 

The adder, though thou know'st it not, forgets 

Her poison, and goes eagerly to her love ; 

Headlong the tygers go ; 

The lion s great heart loves ; and thou alone, 

Wilder than all the wild, 

Deniest the boy a lodging in thy breast. 

But why speak I of tygers, snakes, and lions, 

Who have their share of mind ? The very trees 

Are loving. See with what affection there, 

And in how many a clinging turn and twine, 

The vine holds fast its husband. Fir loves fir, 



19 

The pine the pine; and ash, and willow, and 

beech, 
Each towards the other, yearns, and sighs, and 

trembles. 
That oak tree which appears 
So rustic and so rough, 

Even that has something warm in its sound heart ; 
And hadst thou but a spirit and sense of love, 
Thou hadst found out a meaning for its whispers. 
Now tell me, wouldst thou be 
Less than the very plants, and have no love? 
Think better, oh think better, 
Simpleton that thou art. 

SYLVIA. 
Well, when I hear the sighings of the plants, 
I'll be content to fall in love myself. 

DAPHNE. 
Thou mockest my kind counsel, and mak'st game 



20 

Of all I say to thee, — O deaf to love, 

As thou art blind. But go : — the time will come, 

When thou wilt grieve thou didst not mind my 

words. 
Then wilt thou shun the fountains, where so oft 
Thou makest thee a glass, perhaps a proud one ; 
Then wilt thou shun the fountains, for mere dread 
Of seeing thyself grown wrinkled and featureless. 
This will most surely be ; but not this only ; 
For though a great, 'tis but a common evil. 
I'll tell thee what Elpino, t'other day, 
The wise Elpino, told the fair Lycoris ; 
Her, whose two eyes can do as much with him, 
As his sweet singing ought to do with herj 
If oa.aht were good in love. He told it her 
In hearing both of Battus and of Thyrsis, 
Grerit master;-; they of love; — they were conversing 
Within Aurora's cavern, over which 



21 

*Tis written, " Far be ye, profane ones, far." 
He told her, — and 'twas told to him, he said, 
By that great name that sung of Arms and Loves, 
And who bequeathed him, dying, his own pipe, 
That underneath there, in the infernal depth, 
Is a black den, which breathes out noisome smoke 
From the sad furnaces of Acheron; 
And there, in everlasting punishment, 
With moaning, and tormenting hold of darkness, 
Are kept ungrateful and denying women. 
There then expect a proper dwelling-place 
For thy fierce hardness. 

It will be ju>t and well, that the harsh smoke 
Shall wring the stubborn tears out of those eyes, 
Since never pity yet could draw them down, — 
Folio w thy ways, go follow, 
Obstinate that thou art. 



SYLVIA. 
But what pray did Lycoris? and what answer 
Made she to this? 

DAPHNE. 
Thou car*st not what thou dost, 
And yet would'st fain be told what others do. 
She answered with her eyes. 

SYLVIA. 
Why how could one . 
Answer without? 

DAPHNE. 
They turned with a sweet smile, 
And answered thus : — Our heart, and we, are thine; 

More thou should'st not desire ; nor may there be 
More given. And surely this is all-sufficient 
For a chaste lover, if he holds those eyes 
To be sincere as beautiful, and gives them 
Perfect belief. 



SYLVIA. 
And why not so believe them? 

DAPHNE. 
Knowest thou not what Thyrsis went about 
Writing, the time he wandered in the forests 
Out of his wits, and moved the nymphs and 

shepherds 
To mirth and pity at once ? No things wrote he 
Worthy of laughter, whatsoe'er his deeds* 
He wrote it on a thousand barks, to grow 
Verses and barks together ; and one I read : 
False faithless lights, ye mirrors of her heart, 
Well do I recognise the tricks ye play ! 
But to what profit, seeing I cannot fly? 

SYLVIA. 
I waste the time here, talking. I forget, 
That I must join the accustomed chace to-day 
Among the olive trees. Now pray wait for me, 



24 

Just while I bathe in our old fountain here, 
And rid me of the dust I gathered yesterday 
In following that swift fawn, which nevertheless 
I overtook and killed. 

DAPHNE. 
I'll wait for thee; 
Perhaps will join thee in the bath ; but first 
I must go home. The hour is not so late 
As it appears. So wait for me at home 
Thyself, and Fll come speedily. And pray 
Bethink thee, the mean-time, of what imports thee 
Much more than fawns or fountains. If thou 

knows't it not, 
Know thy own ignorance, and trust the wise. 



25 



SCENE II. 

AMYNTAS AND THYRSIS. 

AMYNTAS. 
In my lamentings I have found 
A very pity in the pebbly waters; 
And I have found the trees 
Return them a kind voice; 
But never have I found, 
Nor ever hope to find, 
Compassion in this hard and beautiful — 
What shall I call her? Woman or wild animal? 
But she herself denies the name of woman, 
In thus denying pity 
To one, whom nought else under heaven denies it. 

THYRSIS. 
The grass is the lamb's food, the lamb the wolf's; 



26 

But cruel love delights to feed on tears, 
And seems to satiate never. 

AMYNTAS. 

Alas! Alas! 
Love has drained all my tears ; it is my blood 
Which he must thirst for now. I hope and trust, 
He and this impious one will have it shortly. 

THYRSIS. 
Amyntas! dear Amyntas! talk not so: 
'Tis idle. Take good heart. This cruel one 
May treat thee ill; but thou can'st find another. 

AMYNTAS. 
Ah me, another! I have lost myself. 
How can I find me joy, myself being gone? 

THYRSIS. 
Do not despair. Thou'lt win her heart at last. 
Patience and time enabled man to put 
His rein on lions and Hyrcanian tygers. 



27 



AMYNTAS. 
The miserable cannot bear to wait 
Long time for death. 

THYRSIS. 

The time will not be long. 
Woman is soon offended, soon appeased, 

Being a thing by nature moveable 

More than the boughs by the wind, or than the tops 

Of quivering corn. But prythee, dear Amyntas, 

Let me more inwardly into the heart 

Of this your troubled love. Thou hast assured me 

Many a time, that thou did'st love me well, 

And yet I know not where thy yearnings lie. 

A faithful friendship, and the common study 

Of the sweet muses, make me not unworthy 

Of knowing what thou may'st conceal from others- 

AMYNTAS. 
Thyrsi's, 1 am content to let thee hear 
c 



28 

What the woods know, and what the mountains know, 

And what the rivers know, and man knows not. 

For to my death I feel myself so nigh, 

'Tis fit I leave behind me one to tell 

The reason why death took me. He can write it 

Upon a beech tree near where they will bury me ; 

And when that hard one passes by the place, 

She shall rejoice to trample my poor clay 

With her proud foot, and say within herself, 

" This is indeed a triumph!" and rejoice 

To think how all, whom chance conducts that way, 

Native or stranger, shall behold her victory. 

And there may come a day, (alas! it is 

Too great to hope) but there may come a day, 

When moved with tardy pity, she may weep 

For one, when dead, whom when alive, she killed ; 

And say, " Ah, would that he were here, and mine!" 

Now mark me. 



29 



THYRSIS. 
Pray speak on. I listen eagerly, 
Perhaps to better purpose than thou thinkest. 

AMYNTAS. 
While yet a boy, scarce tall enough to gather 
The lowest hanging fruit, 1 became intimate 
With the most lovely and beloved girl, 
That ever gave to the winds her locks of gold. 
Thou know'st the daughter of Cydippe and 
Montano, that has such a store of herds, 
Sylvia, the forest's honour, the soul's firer? 
Of her I speak. Alas! I lived one time, 
So fastened to her side, that never turtle 
Was closer to his mate, nor ever will be. 
Our homes were close together, closer still 
Our hearts; our age conformable, our thoughts 
Still more conformed. With her I tended nets 
For birds and fish ; with her followed the stag, 
c2 



so 

And the fleet hind ; our joy and our success 
Were common : but in making prey of animals 
I fell, I know not how, myself a prey. 
There grew by little and little in my heart, 
I know not from what root, 
But just as the grass grows that sows itself 
An unknown something, which continually 
Made me feel anxious to be with her; and then 
I drank strange sweetness from her eyes, which left 
A taste, I know not how, of bitterness. 
Often I sighed, nor knew the reason why ; 
And thus before I knew what loving was, 
Was I a lover. Well enough I knew 
At last ; and I will tell thee how ; pray mark me. 

THYRSIS. 
I mark thee well. 

AMYNTAS. 
One day, Sylvia and Phillis 
Were sitting underneath a shady beech, 



31 

I with them; when a little ingenious bee, 
Gathering his honey in those flowery fields, 
Lit on the cheeks of Phillis, cheeks as red 
As the red rose; and bit, and bit again 
With so much eagerness, that it appeared 
The likeness did beguile him. Phillis, at this, 
Impatient of the smart, sent up a cry; 
"Hush! Hush!" said my sweet Sylvia, " do not 

grieve ; 
I have a few words of enchantment, Phillis, 
Will ease thee of this little suffering. 
The sage Artesia told them me, and had 
That little ivory horn of mine in payment, 
Fretted with gold." So saying, she applied 
To the hurt cheek, the lips of her divine 
And most delicious mouth, and with sweet humming 
Murmured some verses that I knew not of. 
Oh admirable effect! a little while, 
And all the pain was gone; either by virtue 



32 

Of those enchanted words, or as I thought, 

By virtue of those lips of dew, 

That heal whate'er they turn them to. 

I, who till then had never had a wish 

Beyond the sunny sweetness of her eyes, 

Or her dear dulcet words, more dulcet far 

Than the soft murmur of a humming stream 

Crooking its way among the pebble-stones, 

Or summer airs that babble in the leaves, 

Felt a new wish move in me to apply 

This mouth of mine to hers ; and so becoming 

Crafty and plotting, (an unusual art 

With me, but it was love's intelligence) 

I did bethink me of a gentle stratagem 

To work out my new wit. I made pretence, 

As if the bee had bitten my under lip ; 

And fell to lamentations of such sort, 

That the sweet medicine which I dared not ask 



33 

With word of mouth, I asked for with my looks. 

The simple Sylvia then, 

Compassioning my pain, 

Offered to give her help 

To that pretended wound; 

And oh! the real and the mortal wound, 

Which pierced into my being, 

When her lips came on mine. 

Never did bee from flower 

Suck sugar so divine, 

As was the honey that I gathered then 

From those twin roses fresh. 

1 could have bathed in them my burning kisses, 

But fear and shame withheld 

That too audacious fire, 

And made them gently hang. 

But while into my bosom's core, the sweetness, 

Mixed with a secret poison, did go down, 



34 

It pierced me so with pleasure, that still feigning 
The pain of the bee's weapon, I contrived 
That more than once the enchantment was repeated. 
From that time forth, desire 
And irrepressible pain so grew within me, 
That not being able to contain it more, 
I was compelled to speak; and so, one day, 
While in a circle a whole set of us, 
Shepherds and nymphs, sat playing at the game, 
In which they tell in one another's ears 
Their secret each, « Sylvia," said I in her's, 
<* I burn for thee ; and if thou help me not,, 
I feel I cannot live." As I said this, 
She dropt her lovely looks, and out of them 
There came a sudden and unusual flush, 
Portending shame and anger: not an answer 
Did she vouchsafe me, but by a dead silence, 
Broken at last by threats more terrible.. 



35 

She parted then, and would not hear me more, 
Nor see me. And now three times the naked reaper 
Has clipped the spiky harvest, and as often 
The winter shaken down from the fair woods 
Their tresses green, since I have tried in vain 
Every thing to appease her, except death. 
Nothing remains indeed but that I die ! 
And I shall die with pleasure, being certain, 
That it will either please her, or be pitied; 
And I scarce know, which of the two to hope for. 
Pity perhaps would more remunerate 
My faith, more recompence my death ; but still 
I must not hope for aught that would disturb 
The sweet and quiet shining of her eyes, 
And trouble that fair bosom, built of bliss. 

THYRSIS. 
And dost thou think it possible she could hear 

Such words as these, and love thee not some day > 
c 3 



36 



AMYNTAS. 
I know not, and believe not. She avoids me, 
As asps avoid enchantment. 

THYRSIS. 
Trust me now, 
It gives me heart to try, and make her hear thee. 

AMYNTAS. 
She will not grant thy wish, nor if she does, 
Will she grant any thing to me for speaking. 

THYRSIS. 
Why such extreme despair . ? 

AMYNTAS. 

I have good reason. 
Wise Mopsus prophecied my unlucky chance ; 
Mopsus, who knows the language of the birds, 
And what the herbs can do, and what the fountains. 

THYRSIS. 
What Mopsus dost thou speak of? Of that Mopsus^ 



37 

Who with a tongue of honey, and a grin 
Of friendship on his lips, is hollow at heart, 
And holds a dagger underneath his cloak ? 
Now be thou of good heart. These evil omens, 
Which with that solemn brow of his he sells the 

unwary, 
Will never come to pass; and to convince thee, 
I tell thee that I know it. The very evil 
He has predicted, gives me joyful hope 
Of seeing thy love happy. 

AMYNTAS. 

If thou knowest 
Aught that might comfort me, I pray thee speak. 

THYRSIS. 
Most willingly. When first my fortune brought me 
Into these woods, I knew him; and I thought him 
Then, what thou thinkst him now. One day mean- 
while, 



38 

Having necessity as well as wish 
To go where the great city, queen-like, holds 
The banks of the river, I told him my journey. 
This was his answer : " Thou art going then 
To the great spot, where keen and crafty citizens, 
And courtiers in their malice, laugh at us, 
Cutting vile jokes on our simplicity. 
Therefore, my son, take my advice. Avoid 
The places where thou seest much drapery, 
Coloured and gold; and plumes, and heraldries,. 
And such new-fanglements. But above all, 
Take care how evil chance, or youthful wandering 
Bring thee upon the house of Idle Babbling." 
" What place is that ?" said I, and he resumed ; 
" Enchantresses dwell there, who make one see 
Things as they are not, aye, and hear them too. 
That which shall seem pure diamond and fine gold, 
Is glass and brass; and coffers that look silver, 



Heavy with wealth, are baskets full of bladders^ 
The very walls there are so strangely made, 
They answer those who talk; and not in syllables, 
Or bits of words, like Echo in our woods, 
But go the whole talk over, word for word, 
With something else beside, that no one said. 
The tressels, tables, bedsteads, curtains, lockers* 
Chairs, and whatever furniture there is 
In room or bed-room, all have tongues and speech, 
And are for ever tattling. Idle babblings 
Are always going about in shape of children : 
And should a dumb man enter in that place, 
The dumb would babble in his own despite. 
And yet this evil is the least of all 
That might assail thee. Thou mightest be arrested 
In fearful transformation to a willow, 
A beast, fire, water, — fire for ever sighing, 
Water for ever weeping.'' Here he ceased t 



40 

And I, with all this fine foreknowledge, went 

To the great city, and by heaven's kind will, 

Came where they live so happily. The first sound 

I heard was a delightful harmony, 

Which issued forth, of voices loud and sweet: 

Syrens, and swans, and nymphs, a heavenly noise 

Of heavenly things ; which gave me such delight, 

That all admiring, and amazed, and joyed, 

I stopped awhile quite motionless^ there stood 

Within the entrance as if keeping guard 

Of those fine things, one, of a noble presence, 

And stout withal, of whom I was in doubt 

Whether to think him better knight or leader. 

He with a look at once benign and grave, 

In royal guise invited me within, 

He, great and in esteem ; me, lorn and lowly. 

Oh the sensations, and the sights, which then 

Came on me ! Goddesses I saw, and nymphs 



41 

Graceful and beautiful, and harpers fine 

As Linus, or as Orpheus ; and more others 

All without veil or cloud, bright as the virgin 

Aurora, when she glads immortal eyes, 

And sews her beams and dew drops, silver and gold* 

And fertilizing there, I saw act round 

Apollo and the Nine; and with the Nine 

Elpino sat ; and at that moment, I 

Felt myself greater, gifted newly, and full 

Of sudden deity; and I sung of wars 

And chiefs, and trampled the rude pastoral song* 

And though as it pleased others, afterwards 

I came home to these woods, I yet retained 

Something of that great spirit, nor did my pipe 

Speak with its old humility ; but loud 

And loftier-toned filled the wide-echoing woods, 

The rival of the trumpet. Mopsus heard ; 

And eying me with a malignant stare, 



42 

Smote fascination on me ; whence I grew 
Hoarse in my song, and for long time was mute. 
The shepherds thought that I had seen a wolf; 
And so I had ; but then the wolf was he. 
I tell thee this, to shew how little worthy 
He is of thy belief. And now pray hope. 
The more, because he would have kept thee hope- 
less. 

AMYNTAS. 

What thou hast told me, comforts me to hear: 

To thee then I commit the only care 
For which I live. 

THYRSIS. 

I will take care of it. 
Do thou be here again in half an hour. 



43 



CHORUS. 

O lovely age of gold ! 
Not that the rivers rolled 

With milk, or that the woods dropped honey dew ; 
Not that the ready ground 
Produced without a wound, 
Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew? 
Not that a cloudless blue 
For ever was in sight, 
Or that the heaven which burns, 
And now is cold by turns, 
Looked out in glad and everlasting light; 
No, nor that ev'n the insolent ships from far 
Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse 
than war: 



44 

But solely that that vain 
And breath-invented pain, 
That idol of mistakes, that worshipped cheat, 
That Honour, — since so called 
By vulgar minds appalled, 
Played not the tyrant with our nature yet. 
It had not come to fret 
The sweet and happy fold 
Of gentle human-kind ; 
Nor did its hard law bind 
Souls nursed in freedom; but that law of gold, 
That glad and golden law, all free, all fitted, 
Which Nature's own hand wrote, — What pleases, 
is permitted. 

Then among streams and flowers 

The little winged Powers 

Went singing carols without torch or bow: 



45 

The nymphs and shepherds sat 

Mingling with innocent chat 

Sports and low whispers ; and with whispers low 

Kisses that would not go. 

The maiden, budding o'er, 

Kept not her bloom uneyed, 

Which now a veil must hide, 

Nor the crisp apples which her bosom bore: 

And oftentimes, in river or in lake, 

The lover and his love their merry bath would take. 

'Twas thou, thou, Honour, first 
That didst deny our thirst 
Its drink, and on the fount thy covering set: 
Thou bad'st kind eyes withdraw 
Into constrained awe, 

And keep the secret for their tears to wet: 
Thou gatheredst in a net 



46 

The tresses from the air, 
And raad'st the sports and plays 
Turn all to sullen ways, 
And put'st on speech a rein, in steps a care. 
Thy work it is, — thou shade that wilt not move, — 
That what was once the gift, is now the theft of 
Love. 

Our sorrows and our pains, 

These are thy noble gains ! 

But oh, thou Love's and Nature's masterer, 

Thou conq'ror of the crowned, 

What dost thou on this ground, 

Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere I 

Go and make slumber dear 

To the renowned and high : 

We here, a lowly race, 

Can live without thy grace, 



47 

After the use of mild antiquity. 

Go ; let us love : since years 

No trace allow, and life soon disappears. 

Go ; let us love : the daylight dies, is born j 

But unto us the light 

Dies once for all ; and sleep brings on eternal night, 



52 

And bleeding havoc is he in my nature ; 
And millions of sharp spears does he keep stored 
In Sylvia's eyes. Oh cruel love! Oh Sylvia, 
More hard and without sense, than are the woods, 
How rightly dost thou bear that sylvan name ! 
What foresight his who gave it thee ! The woods 
Hide with their lovely leaves, lions, and bears, 
And snakes ; and thou in thy fair bosom hidest 
Hate, and disdain, and hard impiety; 
Things wilder far than lions, bears, and snakes; 
For those are tameable, but to tame thee 
Defies the power of present and of prayer. 
Ah me ! when I would give thee flowers new-blown, 
Thou drawest thyself back; perhaps because 
Thou hast more lovely flowers in thy own looks. 
Ah me ! when I present thee sweet young apples, 
Thou puttest them away; perhaps because 
Thou hast more sweet young apples in thy bosom. 



53 

Alas ! when I would please thee with sweet honey, 

Thou treatest it as nought; perhaps because 

Thou hast a sweeter honey in thy lips. 

If ray poor means can give thee nothing better, 

I give thee ray own self. And why, unjust one, 

Scorn and abhor the gift? I am not one 

To be despised, if truly t'other day 

I saw myself reflected in the sea, 

When the winds hushed, and there was not a wave. 

This ruddy sanguine visage, these broad shoulders, 

This hairy breast, and these my shaggy thighs, 

Are marks of strength and manhood. If thou dost 

not 
Believe them, try them. What dost thou expect 
Of those young dainty ones, whose girlish cheeks 
Are scarcely tinged with down, and who dispose 
Their pretty locks in order, — girls indeed 
In strength as well as look ? Will any of them 

B 



54 

Follow thee through the woods, and up the 

mountains, 
And combat for thy sake with bears and boars ? 
I am no brute thing ; no, — nor dost thou scorn me 
Because I am thus shaped, but simply and solely 
Because I am thus poor. Oh, that the woods 
Should take this vile example from the town. 
This is indeed the age of gold ; for gold 
Is conqueror of all, and gold is king. 
Oh thou, whoe'er thou wert, that first did shew 
The way to make love venal, be thou accurst. 
Curst may thine ashes be, and cold thy bones ; 
And never may'st thou find shepherd or nymph 
To say to them in passing " Peace be with ye ;" 
But may the sharp rains wash them, and the winds 
Blow on their bareness ; and the herd's foul foot 
Trample them, and the stranger. Thou did'st first 
Put shame upon the nobleness of love; 



And thine was the vile hand that first did put 
Bitterness in his cup. A venal love! 
A love that waits on gold! It is the greatest, 
And most abominable, and filthiest monster, 
That ever land or sea shuddered at bearing. 
But why in vain lament me ? Every creature 
Uses the helping arms which nature gave it : 
The stag betakes himself to flight, the lion 
Ramps with his mighty paws, the foaming boar 
Turns with his tusks; and loveliness and grace 
Are woman's weapons and her potency. 
If nature made me then fitted for deeds 
Of violence and rapine, why not I 
Use violence for m} r ends ? I will do so : 
I will go force from that ungrateful one 
What she denies my love. A goatherd, who 
Has watched her ways, tells me that she is used 
To bathe her in a fountain; and has shewn me 
D 2 



56 

The very spot. There will I plant me close 
Among the shrubs and bushes, and so wait 
Until she come ; then seize my opportunity, 
And run upon her. What can she oppose, 
The tender thing, either by force or flight, 
To one so swift and powerful ? She may use 
Her sighs and tears, and all that is of force 
In beauty to move pity. I will twist 
This hand of mine in her thick locks; nor stir 
One step till I have drank my draught of vengeance. 



57 

SCENE II. 

DAPHNE AND THYRSIS. 

DAPHNE. 
As I have told thee, Thyrsis, I knew well 
How warmly Amyntas loved : and heaven knows 
How many offices of kindness, I 
Have done him, and how many more would do. 
Thy prayers have now been added ; but as soon 
Mightst thou expect to tame a sullen bull, 
Or bear, or tyger, as this simple girl, 
As foolish as she's fair. She never heeds, 
How hot or sharp the darts may be, that strike 
From her fair hands ; but whether grave or merry, 
Goes slaying on; and slays, and knows it not. 

THYRSIS. 
Nay, where is to be found the girl so simple, 



58 

That if she has but left her leading-strings, 
Learns not the art of striking and of pleasing, 
And killing with those pleasing arts, and knowing 
What arms she wears, and which dispenses death, 
And which is healing and restores to life? 

DAPHNE. 
And who is master, pray, of all those arts ? 

THYRSIS. 
Thou feignest ignorance to try me. Well: 
The master is the same that teaches birds 
Their singing and their flight, fishes their swim- 
ming, 
The ram his butting, tossing to the bull, 
And shews the stately-loving peacock how 
To open wide the pomp of his eyed plumes. 

DAPHNE. 
And this great master's name? 



59 

THYRSIS. 

Daphne. 
DAPHNE. 

Fine words! 

THYRSIS. 
Why so ? Art thou not fit to open school 
For thousands of thy sex ? Though, to say truth, 
There is no need of master. Nature is master; 
But then the mother and the nurse bear part. 

DAPHNE. 
Truly thou'rt both a simple and a sad one. — 
But to our business. I must own to thee, 
1 half suspect that Sylvia is not quite 
So simple as she seems. I witnessed something 
But yesterday which makes me doubt. I found her 
In those large meadows neighbouring the city, 
Where there's a little isle among the pools. 
She looked on one of them, and hung right over 



60 

Its clear unruffled glass, as if to see 
How beautiful she looked, and how to best 
Advantage she might set the dropping curls 
About her brow, and on her curls her net, 
And on her net some flowers that filled her bosom* 
And now she would take out some privet-blossom, 
And now a rose, and hold it to her fair 
Fine neck, or her vermillion cheeks, to make 
Comparison of their hues. Then she would dart 
A smile, as if in gladsome victory, 
Which seemed to say, " I conquer nevertheless; 
And I will wear ye, not for my adorning, 
But solely to your shame, that ye may find 
How I surpass ye far." As she was thus 
Adorning and admiring her, she chanced 
To turn her eyes, and finding I had seen her, 
Let fall her flowers, and rose covered with 
blushes. 



61 

I laughed to see her blush ; she blushed the more 
To see me laugh ; and yet, having her locks 
But partly gathered up, she had recourse 
Once or twice more to her fair friend, the lake, 
And stole admiring glances : till afraid 
That I espied her spyings, she was pleased 
To let herself remain thus partly dressed, 
Seeing how negligence became her too. 
I saw it, and said nothing. 

THYRSIS. 

'Tis exactly 
As I supposed. Now dost thou understand me ? 

DAPHNE. 
I understand thee well. But I have heard, 
That nymphs and shepherdesses formerly 
Were not thus knowing, yet reserved. I was not 
In my own youth. The world methinks, grows old, 
And growing old, grows sad. 
D 3 



62 

THYRSIS. 

In those good times 
The town, I guess, did not so often spoil 
The woods and fields; nor on the other hand 
Our foresters so often go to town. 
Manners and tribes are mingled now-a-days. 
But let us leave this talk. Tell me now, Daphne, 
Can'st thou not so contrive, some day or other, 
That Sylvia shall consent to see Amyntas 
Alone, — or if not so, at least with thee? 

DAPHNE. 
I know not. She is now more coy than ever. 

THYRSIS. 
And he, no doubt, more full of his respect. 

DAPHNE. 
Respectful loving is a desperate trade. 
He should set up another. The first step 
In learning love, is to unlearn respect. 



63 

The scholar then must dare, demand, intreat, 
Importune, run away with ; and if that 
Be not sufficient, there is one thing more. 
Knowest thou not the stuff that woman's made of? 
She flies, and flying would provoke pursuit : 
Refuses ; and refusing, would be plundered : 
Combats; and combating, would be overthrown. 
Ah, Thyrsis, 'tis in confidence I speak 
To thee. Deride it not ; nor above all, 
Put it in rhyme. Thou knowest I know how 
To give thee for thy verses, something better. 

THYRSIS. 
Thou hast no reason to suspect me capable 
Of ever uttering syllable thou lik'st not. 
But now I pray thee, gentle Daphne mine, 
By the sweet memory of thy fresh youth, 
That thou wilt help me to help poor Amyntas. 
He will die else. 



64 



DAPHNE. 
O gallant adjuration ! 
To remind woman of her younger days ; 
Of her delights gone by, and present sadness 
Well : what wouldst have me do ? 

THYRSIS. 
Thou wantest not 
Wit nor advice, suffice it that thou wilt. 

DAPHNE. 
Well then. We two (Sylvia and I,) shall go 
To the fountain which is call'd Diana's fountain, 
Thou know'st it, — where the plane-tree is, that 

holds 
Sweet shade to the sweet waters, and invites 
The nymphs to seat them freshly from the chace. 
There, I know well, she will engulf her fair 
And naked limbs. 

THYRSIS. 
What then? 



65 



DAPHNE. 

What then! O brain 
Of little wit ! Think, and thou'lt know what then. 

THYRSTS. 
I see. But then his courage, 1 doubt that. 

DAPHNE. 

Nay, if he have not that, he must needs stay, 
And wait till people fetch him. 

THYRSIS. 

And even that 
His nature would deserve. 

DAPHNE. 

A little now 
To talk of thyself, Thyrsis. Come ; hast thou 
No wish to be in love? Thou art still young, 
Not more than four years over the fourth lustre, 
If I remember rightly. Would'st thou lead 
A life of insipidity and denial ? 
Man knows not what delight is, till he loves. 



66 



THYRSIS. 
The man that avoids love, need not be ignorant 
Of the delights of Venus. He but culls 
And tastes the sweets of love without the bitter. 

DAPHNE. 
Insipid is the sweet undashed with bitter: 
And satiates too soon. 

THYRSIS. 
Better be satiate 
Than ever hungering, — hungering during food, 
And after food. 

DAPHNE. 
Not if the food so pleases, 
And so possesses one, that every relish 
Invites but to another. 

THYRSIS. 
Aye, but who 
Possesses such a food, and has it always 
At hand, to feast his hunger ? 



67 

DAPHNE. 

Who is he 
Finds what he does not look for? 

THYRSIS. 

'Tis a search 
Too perilous, to look for what so cheats us, 
When it is found ; and tortures more, when not. 
No ; no more love for me ; no slaveries more 
Of sighs and tears before his reckless throne. 
I have had sighs and tears enough. Let others 
Play their part now. 

DAPHNE. 

But not enough of joys. 

THYRSIS. 
I wish them not, if they must cost so dear. 

DAPHNE. 
Thou wilt be forced to love, whate'er thou wishest. 

THYRSIS. 
But how can he be forced, who keeps at distance ? 



DAPHNE. 
Who keeps love distant? 

THYRSIS. 

He who fears and flies, 

DAPHNE. 
What use to fly, when the pursuer has wings ? 

THYRSIS. 
A love new born has but small wings. He scarcely 
Can lift himself upon them, much less dare 
To spread them to the wind: 

DAPHNE. 

Man seldom knows 
When Love is born ; and when he does, Love is 
Full grown at once, and plumed. 

THYRSIS. 

Suppose he has seen 
Love born before? 

DAPHNE. 
Well; we shall see, Thyrsi's, 



69 

Whether thine eyes will be so prompt for flight, 
As thou supposest. I protest to thee, 
That should I ever see thee call for help, 
When thou dost play the racer and the stag, 
I will not move a single step to help thee ; 
No, not a finger, a syllable, or a wink. 

THYRSIS. 
Cruel 1 And would it give thee pleasure then 
To see me dead ? If thou wouldst have me love, 
Love me thyself. Let both be loved and loving. 

DAPHNE. 
Thou mockest me, I fear ; perhaps, in truth, 
Deserv'st a mistress more complete than I. 
Oh! the seductions of enamelled cheeks! 

THYRSIS. 
I mock thee not, believe me. It is thou 
That rather tak'st this method to refuse me. 
It is the way with all of ye. However, 



If thou wilt love me not, I will love on 
Without a love. 

DAPHXE. 
Be happy then, dear Thyrsis, 
Happier than ever. Live in perfect ease ; 
For love takes root in ease, and flourishes. 

THYRSIS. 
O Daphne ! 'twas a God gave me that ease. 
For well may he be deemed a God among us, 
Whose mighty flocks and herds feed every where, 
From sea to sea, both on the cultured smoothness, 
And glad amenity of fertile fields, 
And o'er the mountainous backs of Apennine. 
He said to me, when first he made me his, 
" Thyrsis, let others guard my walled folds, 
And chace the wolves and robbers ; others give 
My servants their rewards and punishments ; 
And others feed my flocks, and others manage 



71 

The dairies and the shearings, and dispense 
Their wealth. Do thou, since thou art more at 

ease, 
Sing only." Therefore 'tis most just, my song 
Turn not upon the sports of earthly love, 
But sing the lineage of my great and true 
(Which name am I to chuse?) Apollo or Jove, 
For in his works and looks, both he resembles; 
A lineage worthy of Saturn and of Ccelus. 
Thus has a rustic muse, regal reward ; 
And whether clear or hoarse, he scorns her not. 
I sing not of himself, being unable 
To honour his great nature worthily, 
Except with silence and with reverence. 
But not for ever shall his altars be 
Without my flowers, — without the sweet uprolling 
Of odorous incense. And this faith of mine, 
Pure and devout, shall go not from my heart, 
Till stags shall go to feed themselves in air, 



72 



And the old rivers run from out their paths, 
And Persians drink the Soane, and Gauls the 
Tigris. 

DAPHNE. 
Truly thou fliest high. Now please descend 
A little to our work. 

THYRSIS. 

The point is this ; 
That thou should'st go into the fountain with her, 
And try to awake her tenderness. Meanwhile 
I will persuade Amyntas to come after. 
And I suspect my task is not less difficult 
Than thine, so let us go. 

DAPHNE. 
I will : but mind ; 
Forget not that we have a task besides. 

THYRSIS. 
If T discern his countenance at this distance, 
It is Amyntas issuing there. 'Tis he. 



73 



SCENE III. 

THYRSIS AND AMYNTAS. 

AMYNTAS. 
I wish to know what Thyrsis may have done ; 
If nothing, then, before I pass to nothing, 
I will go slay me right before the eyes 
Of this hard girl. 
She is displeased to see 
The wound in my heart's core, 
Struck by her own sweet eyes. 
She will be pleased to see 
The new wound in my bosom, 
Struck by my own poor hand. 
THYRSIS. 
I bring thee comfortable news, Amyntas, 
Dry up thy tears for ever. 



n 



AMYNTAS. 

What ! Ah, me, 
What dost thou say ? What bring me ? Life or 
death > 

THYRSIS. 
Life and salvation, if thou darest to meet them ; 
But thou must be a man, and dare indeed. 

AMYNTAS. 
What dare, and against whom ? 

THYRSIS. 

Suppose thy lady 
Were in the middle of a wood, which girt 
With lofty rocks, harboured wild beasts and lions : 
Would'st thou go join her? 

AMYNTAS. 

Aye, as full of joy, 
And more, than holiday maiden to a dance. 



75 



THYRSIS. 
Suppose her too, in midst of arms and robbers, 
Woulds't thou go join her? 

AMYNTAS. 

Aye, more headlong glad, 
Than thirsting stag to fountain. 

THYRSIS. 

There is need 
Of greater daring then, than even this, 

AMYNTAS. 
Why, I will go in middle of rapid torrents, 
When the great snows get loose, and swell them 

down 
Sheer to the sea. I will go treading fires, 
The fires of hell itself, if she be there, 
And hell can be where there's a thing so fair. 
Now, tell me all. 

THYRSIS. 
Listen, 



73 



AMYNTAS. 

I pray thee speak. 

THYRSIS. 
Sylvia is waiting for thee at a fountain, 

Naked and alone. 

AMYNTAS. 
Oh ! what is it thou sayest ? 
Naked and alone, and roe I 

THYRSIS. 

Alone; except 
Daphne be with her, who is in our interest. 

AMYNTAS. 
Naked? and waits for me? 

THYRSIS. 

Aye, naked; but — 

AMYNTAS. 
Alas, that but ! Thou speakest not ; thcu killest me, 

THYRSIS. 
But she is not aware yet of thy coming. 



AMYNTAS. 

Oh hard conclusion, which comes poisoning all I 
What arts are these to torture me, fierce friend ? 
Does it seem little to thee I am wretched, 
That thus thou would'st increase my misery ? 

THYRSIS. 
Follow my counsel, and I'll make thee happy. 

AMYNTAS. 
What counsel? 

THYRSIS. 
That thou go directly, and seize 
What friendly fortune offers. 

AMYNTAS. 

God forbid, 

That I should do the least thing to displease her. 

I never did, except in loving her; 

And that I could not help : her beauty made me. 



78 

Therefore it is not the less true for that, 
That in all things I can, I seek to please her. 

THYRSIS. 

Now answer me. Suppose 'twere in thy power 
To cease to \o\e her, would'st thou please her so ? 

AMYNTAS. 

Love will not let me answer thee ; no, nor suffer 
The very imagination of the thing. 

THYRSIS. 
Then thou would'st love her in her own despite, 
When thou could'st cease to love her, if thou 
would'st. 

AMYNTAS. 
No, not in her despite ; but I would love her. 

THYRSIS. 
Against her will then ? 

AMYNTAS. 

Yes, undoubtedly. 



79 

THYRSIS. 
Why then not dare to take against her will 
That which however grievous to her at first, 
Will, when 'tis taken, be at last, at last, 
Both sweet and dear to her? 

AMYNTAS. 

Ah, Thyrsis, love 
Must answer for me. At ray heart he speaks, 
At my heart's core ; but I cannot repeat it. 
Custom has made thee talk of love too lightly. 
Thou art too used in art, to talk of love. 
What ties my heart, ties up my tongue. 

THYRSIS. 

Thou wilt 
Not go then? 

AMYNTAS. 
Yes, I will; but not where thou 
Would'st have me go. 

e2 



80 

THYRSIS. 
Where then ? 

AMYNTAS. 

To death :— if all 
Thou hast to tell me for my good, be this. 

THYRSIS. 

Does this then seem to thee so little ? Think : 
Dost thou suppose that Daphne would have formed 
This plan herself, had she not partly known 
Sylvia's own mind ? Sylvia may know of it, 
And yet not wish to be supposed to know. 
Now if thou seekest her express consent, 
Dost thou not see thou wilt displease her more ? 
Where then is all this mighty wish of thine 
To please her ? If she wishes thy delight 
To be thy theft* thy rapine not her gift, 
Nor favour, foolish boy, what matters it, 
This mode or that? 



81 



AMYNTAS. 
And who will make me sure, 
That she does wish it? 

THYRSIS. 

Now art thou a madman. 
See if thou dost not wish the very certainty 
Which she dislikes, and which she should dislike, 
And which thou should'st not look for. Oh but then, 
Who is to make thee sure she does not wish ! 
Now grant she does, and that thou dost not go. 
The doubt and risk are equal. Oh ! how nobler 
To die like a brave man, than like a coward! 
Thou'rt dumb : thou'rt conquered. Come, confess 

as much, 
And thy defeat shall be thy cause of victory; 
Come, let us go. 

AMYNTAS. 
Nay, stop. 



82 

THYRSIS. 
Why stop ? Time flies. 

AMYNTAS. 
Ah, let us first consider — let us think 
What we should do, and how. 

THYRSIS. 

Upon the road then. 
To think too many things, is to do none. 

CHORUS. 

Tell us, O Love, what school, 

What mighty master's rule, 

Can teach thine art, so doubtful and so long ? 

Who shall enable sense 

To know the intelligence, 

Which takes us heavenward on thy pinions strong ? 

Not all that learned throng 



83 

Among the Attic trees, 

Nor Phoebus on his hill 

Who sings of loving still, 

Could truly tell us of thy mysteries. 

Little he spoke, and cold, 

Of what we would be told ; 

Nor had the voice of fire 

Fit for the listening of our great desire. 

With thee, O Love, with thee, 

He raises not his yearnings equally. 

It is thyself alone 

By whom thou can'st be shewn, 

Sole manifester thou of all thy sense : 

'Tis thou, that by the rude 

Cans't render understood 

Those admirable things, deep, sweet, and wise, 



84 

Which thine own proper hand 

In amorous letters writes in others' eyes: 

Thou loosenest the tongues 

Of those that serve thee well 

Into a beauteous and a bland 

Abundant eloquence. 

And often (O divine 

And wondrous deed of thine !) 

In passion-broken words, 

And a confused saying, 

The struggling heart shall best 

Leap forth and be expressed, 

And more avail than rhetoric's whole displaying. 

Thy very silence wears 

The face of ended prayers. 

Oh Love, let others read 
The old Socratic scrolls, 



85 

Two lovely eyes out-master all their schools : 

And pens of learned mark 

Shall find it but lost time, 

Compared with this wild rhyme, 

Which a rude hand cuts on the rude tree bark. 



£3 



89 



ACT THIRD. 

SCENE I. 
THYRSIS AND CHORUS. 

THYRSIS. 
O infinite cruelty ! O thankless heart ! 

thankless woman, and thrice and four times most 
Ungrateful sex ! and thou, Nature thyself, 
Negligent mistress, why in looks alone, 

And surfaces of women, dost thou put 

All that is in them of the gentle and kind ? 

Ah, my poor friend! perhaps he has slain himself I 

1 see him not; I have searched all the place 
In which I left him, and looked round about, 
And searched again, and found no trace of him. 



90 

He must have slain himself! I'll ask the shepherds, 
Whom I see there. Friends, have you seen 

Amyntas, 
Or heard of him ? 

CHORUS. 

Thou seemest much disturbed: 
What is it troubles thee ? Why this heat and 

panting ? 
Has any ill befallen ? Pray thee tell us. 

THYRS1S. 
I dread ill of Amyntas. Have ye seen him? 

CHORUS. 
Not since he left thyself. What dost thou dread ? 

THYRSIS. 
That he has slain himself. 

CHORUS. 

Has slain himself, 
Why ? for what reason ? 



91 



THYRSIS. 
Oh, for Hate and Love# 

CHORUS. 
Terrible enemies to league together ! 
What could they not ? But tell us, pray, more 
clearly. 

THYRSIS. 
He loved a nymph too well, who too much hated 
him. 

CHORUS. 
Nay, tell us all. This is a thoroughfare; 
And while thou talkest, some one may arrive 
With news of him, perhaps his very self. 

THYRSIS. 
Most willingly. For 'tis not just, that such 
Extreme and strange ingratitude should miss 
Its proper infamy. My friend had learnt 
( Alas ! 'twas I that told him and conducted him j 



92 

1 repent now) that Sylvia meant to go 

With Daphne to a fount to bathe herself. 

There then he followed, doubting and uneasy, 

Moved, not by his own heart, but by my urgent 

And goading importunity. Oft times 

Would he have turned him back ; and I as oft 

Forced him along. Scarcely had we arrived 

In neighbourhood of the place, when lo ! we heard 

Cries of a woman in distress ; and Daphne 

Appeared at the same time, wringing her hands. 

The moment she beheld us, she cried out, 

" Help, help ! Sylvia is forced !" The enamoured 

boy 
As soon as his ear heard, sprung like the pard. 
I followed him: and lo ! bound to a tree 
Was the fair nymph, naked as she was born. 
The rope that bound her, was her own soft hair, 
Her very hair, twisted about the tree 



93 

In savage knots ; and that bright zone of her's. 
Which held her virgin bosom in its clip, 
Was made to serve the outrage, and strapped fast 
Her hands to the hard trunk. Nay, even the tree 
Itself was forced to that vile ministry; 
And a green withy of its flowering boughs 
Fettered each delicate leg. Right fronting her 
We saw a villain Satyr, who that moment 
Was finishing his fastenings. She did all 
She could to hinder him ; but what was that ? 
The moments vanished. Amyntas with a lance 
In his right hand, came on the Satyr, like 
A lion. I had filled my lap with stones : 
And the brute ravisher fled. His flight left leisure 
To the glad lover's eyes ; and round he turned 

them 
With earnestness upon those lovely limbs, 
Which looked as delicate and fair as cream 



94 

When curdled smooth it trembles in white baskets. 
I saw his visage sparkle fire. But soon 
Accosting her in a low voice, and modestly, 
He said, " O heavenly Sylvia, thou must pardon 
These hands, if it be too presumptuous bold 
To come so near thy limbs of loveliness. 
Necessity compels them, — hard necessity 
To loosen all these knots ; and so I pray thee, 
Let not the grace, which fortune thus concedes 

them, 
Be painful to thee." 

CHORUS. 

Words to mollify 

A heart of stone : but what did she reply ? 

THYRSIS. 
Nothing. But in disdain and shame kept down 
Her eyes towards the earth, hiding, as much 
As in her lay, her delicate bosom. He, 



95 

Assisting her aloof, began to untie 
Her tresses, saying all the while, 6i Unworthy 
Of knots so beautiful was this hard trunk. 
What are the advantages of Love's own servants, 
If trees and they have such fair bonds in common ? 
Hard-hearted tree! and could'st thou hurt the hair 
That did thee so much honour i" After this 
He loosed her hands with his, in such a manner 
As showed how much he feared, yet longed, to 

touch them; 
And then he stooped to set her ancles free ; 
But she, the moment she could use her hands, 
Made a contemptuous gesture, and said, u Shep- 
herd, 
See that thou touch me not ; I am Diana's : 
Leave me to loosen them." 

CHORUS. 

Can such pride be 



96 

In woman's heart? Oh graceless recompence 
For such a graceful service! 

THYRSIS. 

He drew back, 
And stood apart in reverence, not even raising 
His eyelids to admire her, but denying 
The pleasure to himself, purely to take 
The trouble of denying it from her. 
I, who kept close, and witnessed every thing, 
And heard as well, felt ready to cry out ; 
But I restrained myself. Now hear a wonder; 
After much trouble she unloosed herself, 
And scarcely had done so, than without saying 
A bare adieu, she set off like a fawn. 
Certainly for no fear ; for his respect 
Was too well known. 

CHORUS. 
Whv fled she then ? 



97 

THYRS1S. 

Because 

She fain would have owed thanks to flight alone. 

Not to his modest love. 

CHORUS. 

Ungrateful still : 
But what did he do then ? What said he ? 

THYRSIS. 

I know not; 
For in my haste to finish my fine work 
And bring her back, I missed both her and him. 
When I returned, he was not at the fountain ; 
And therefore is it that I dread some evil. 
I know he was disposed to slay himself, 
Even before this happened. 

CHORUS. 

'Tis the custom 

And artifice of Love to threaten suicide: 

But the blow seldom follows. 



98 



THYRSIS. 

Heaven grant 
He may be no exception. 

CHORUS. 

Trust he will not. 

THYRSIS. 
I'll look into the cave of sage Elpino. 
Amyntas, if alive, may have gone there ; 
For there he has been often used to sweeten 
His bitter sufferings in the flowing sound 
Of that clear pipe, which is of charm enough 
To make the mountains listen, and the streams 
Run into milk, and the hard trees give honey. 



99 



SCENE II. 
AMYNTAS, DAPHNE, AND NERINA. 

AMYNTAS. 
Pitiless was thy pity, 

Daphne, when thou did'st pull back the lance; 
For the more slowly my death comes, the more 
His shadow will oppress me. 

And why thus lead me through so many paths, 
Discoursing all the while? What dost thou fear? 
That I shall kill myself? Thou fear'st my comfort. 

DAPHNE. 
Despair not, dear Amyntas. 

1 know her well. 'Twas but shame-facedness 
That made her fly, not cruelty. 

AMYNTAS. 

LQ Ah me! 



100 

It is my safest business to despair. 

Hope is my ruin. Even now, alas ! 

It tries to spring up in this heart of mine, 

Solely because I live. What evil is there 

Worse than the life of such a wretch as I am ? 

DAPHNE. 
Live, live, unhappy one, in spite of wretchedness : 
Endure thy state, to be at last made happy. 
If thou dost live and hope, thy hope's reward 
Will be what thou hast seen in that bare beauty. 

AMYNTAS. 
Nay, love and fate thought not my misery 
Quite perfect, till in all its perfectness 
Mine eyes had seen the bliss, 
Which I must ever miss. 

NERINA. 

(coming among the tree^J 
Thus must I be the raven of bad news. 
O wretched Montano ! miserable for ever. 



101 

How wilt thou bear thyself, when thou art told 
What has befallen thine own and only Sylvia? 
Poor grey bereaved old man, no more a father ! 

DAPHNE. 
I hear a sorrowful voice. 

AMYNTAS. 

I hear a name, 
That strikes through ears and heart. 

DAPHNE. 

It is Nerina, 
The gentle nymph whom Cynthia holds so dear! 
She that has such sweet eyes, and beautiful hands, 
And manners of such grace and friendliness. 

NERINA. 
Still he must know it; he must make them gather 
Her luckless relics, should she be not whole. 
Oh Sylvia, what a hard and dreadful lot ! 

AMYNTAS. 
Alas! who can it be? Who speaks? 



102 

NERINA. 

O Daphne ! 

DAPHNE. 
Why talkest thou to thyself? and what of Sylvia, 
And all these sighs? 

NERINA. 

A dreadful thing it is, 
That makes me sigh. 

AMYNTAS. 
What horror does she speak of? 
A deadly ice has shot about my heart, 
And shuts up my loud spirit. Is she alive ? 

DAPHNE. 
Tell us, pray tell us ! 

NERINA. 
Oh God, that I should be the messenger! 
But I must speak. Sylvia — she came to me — 
To my house — naked. Why, thou knowest well. 






103 

When she was dressed, she asked me to go with her 
And join a chace, down in the Wood of Holms : 
I said I would. We went, and found a throng 
Of nymphs arrived ; when lo ! I know not whence, 
A most enormous wolf dashed right among us, 
His jaws all bathed in blood. Sylvia like lightning 
Fits a large arrow to a bow I had, 
And draws and strikes him sheer upon the head. 
He plunges back into the woods; and she, 
Holding a lance in ready fierceness, follows. 

AMYNTAS. 
Oh dolorous beginning ! What, ah me ! 
Will be the end? 

NERINA. 
I with another lance 
Followed her track, but far enough behind, 
Not being so swift. As soon as they had reached 
The inmost part of the wood, she disappeared. 



104. 

Still I pursued the track ; which led so far 
That I arrived at last at the most desert 
And gloomy spot in the forest. There I came 
Upo n the lance of Sylvia : — and not far off 
Was a white net, which I myself had bound 
Her tresses with; and as I looked about, 
I saw seven wolves, busy in licking blood 
Among some naked bones. They saw not me* 
As it turned out, so earnest was their meal. 
Brimful of fear and pity, I returned : 
x\nd this is all I know of Sylvia's fate. 
Here is the net. 

AMYNTAS. 
All which thou knowest ! and the net ! and blood 2 
O Sylvia, thou art dead. ( He falls to the earth, J 

DAPHNE. 

This misery 
Has overcome him. How now ! Is he dead ? 



105 



NERINA. 

He breathes again! 'Twas but a passing swoon; 

He comes to himself. 

AMYNTAS. 

Oh Sorrow, 

Why dost thou so contrive to torture me, 

That death is spared me still. Thou art too 

merciful. 
Or wouldst thou leave the task to mine own hands ? 
Content! Content! since thou wilt do it not, 
Or cannot. Oh if this dire news be true, 
And my great misery perfect, why stay longer ? 
What can I look for more ? Oh Daphne, Daphne, 
To this most bitter end 'twas thou didst keep me, 
Even to this end most bitter. 
A sweet and comely death might I have died, 
Compared with dying now. Thou didst prevent me ; 



f 2 



106 

And heaven, which knew I should have so out- 
stripped 
This fiercer misery that was to follow, 
May now, in striking its last wound upon me, 
Well grant me leave to die. 
Thou too shouldst grant me leave. 

DAPHNE. 
Have patience yet, till thou hast learnt the truth. 

AMYNTAS. 
The truth ! What truth ? Did I not wait before, 
And learn too much? 

NERINA. 
Would I had held my peace ! 

AMYNTAS. 
Fair nymph, I pray thee, give me 
That net, — the poor remains of all that beauty. 
It shall be my companion 
For the small space I have to live and move, 



107 

And with its presence aggravate a martyrdom, 
Which is, indeed, small martyrdom, at best, 
If I have need of being helped to die. 

NERINA. 
Ought I to give it him or not ? 
The very reason which thou giv'st for asking it 
Compels me to deny it thee. 

AMYNTAS. 

Deny! 
Deny me at my last extremity 
A thing so small! Even in this I see 
The malice of my fate. I yield ! I yield ! 
Let it stay with thee ; and do ye, stay both : 
I vanish, never to return. 

DAPHNE. 

Amyntas ! 
Amyntas ! Stay ! 
Oh, with what desperate fury does he run ! 



108 

NERINA. 

So swiftly, 'tis in vain to follow him. 
I will pursue my way ; and it may be 
Better perhaps that I do hold my peace, 
And tell not poor Montano. 



CHORUS. 

There is no need of death 

To bind a great heart fast : 

Faith is enough at first, and Love at last. 

Nor does a fond desert 

Pursue so hard a fame 

In following its sweet aim; 

Since Love is paid with its own loving heart. 

And oftentimes, ere it work out its story, 

It finds itself clasp glory. 



Ill 



ACT FOURTH. 



SCENE I. 
DAPHNE, SYLVIA, AND CHORUS. 

DAPHNE. 
May the wind bear away with the bad news 
That was so spread of thee, all, all thy ills, 
Both present and to come. Thou art alive 
And well, thank Heaven ; and I had thought thee 

dead; 
Fully believed it; with such circumstance 
Nerina had described thy misadventure. 
Ah, would she had been mute, or others deaf! 




112 



SYLVIA. 
Doubtless it was great chance; and she had 

reason 
To think me dead. 

DAPHNE. 

But not to tell us so. 
Now tell us all thyself of thy escape. 

SYLVIA. 
Following a wolf, I found myself immersed 
In such a depth of trees, I lost the track. 
While I was seeking how I should return, 
I saw him again ; I knew him by an arrow 
Which I had fixed upon him by the ear. 
He was with many others, occupied 
With some dead animal, I know not what, 
Which had been freshly slain. The wounded beast 
Knew me, I think ; for with his bloody mouth 
He issued forth upon me. I expected him, 



113 

And shook my lance. Thou knowest I have skill 
At games like those, and seldom strike in vain. 
This time however, though I seemed to mark 
My distance well, I launched the steel for nothing. 
Whether 'twas fortune or my fault, I know not, 
But in the enemy's stead, it pierced a tree. 
More greedy then came he j and I who found him 
So close to me, and thought my weapon useless, 
Having no other arms, took swift to flight. 
I fled: he followed. Hear now the result. 
A net which held my hair, got partly loose, 
And fluttering to the wind, was caught by a bough. 
I felt a something pull me, and retard, 
And frightened for my life, would have redoubled 
The swiftness of my running ; but the bough 
Resisted in its turn, and held me fast. 
At last I tore away, leaving the veil 
And some of my hair with it ; and such wings 
f 3 



114 

Fear lent my feet, that he o'ertook me not, 
And forth I issued safe. Returning home, 
I met with thee, looking all agitation; 
And was not less astonished at the sight 
Than thou at mine. 

DAPHNE. 
Thou art alive indeed. 
Alas, that all are not so! 

SYLVIA. 

What? Dost grieve? 

DAPHNE. 
No : I am pleased to see thee safe : I grieve 
Because another's dead. 

SYLVIA. 

Dead? Who? 

DAPHNE. 

Amyntas. 

SYLVIA. 
Amyntas? How? 



115 



DAPHNE. 
I cannot tell thee how; 
Nor yet indeed whether he lives, or not, 
But I, myself, firmly believe him dead. 

SYLVIA. 
What do I hear? But what dost thou suppose 
The reason of his death ? 

DAPHNE. 

Thine own. 

SYLVIA. 

My death ? 
I do not understand thee. 

DAPHNE. 

The report then 
Of thy sad end he heard and he believed ; 
And it has certainly, by this time, driven him 
To some most desperate end on his own part. 

SYLVIA. 
Nay, thy suspicion will turn out as groundless, 



116 

As it has done just now. Every one takes 
All possible care of his own life, believe me. 

DAPHNE. 
Oh Sylvia, Sylvia, thou hast no conception 
Of what love's fierceness in a heart can do ; 
A heart, at least, of flesh and blood, not stone 
As thine is. If thou hadst but known it half, 
Thou would'st have loved the being who loved thee 
More than the very apples of his eyes, 
More than the breath he lived by. I believe it, 
For I have seen it. When thou didst betake thee 
To flight from him, (oh, fiercer creature thou 
Than tygers) when thou shouldst have been 
Embracing him for love and gratitude, 
I saw him turn his lance upon himself. 
It pierced his clothes and skin, and with his blood 
Was coloured; nor did he, for all that, slacken, 
But would have thrust it desperately in 



117 

And pierced the heart which had been treated worse 
And wounded more by thee, had I not seized 
His arm and hindered him. Alas ! Alas ! 
That shallow wound perhaps was but the exercise 
Of his determined and despairing constancy, 
And did but shew the way for the fierce steel 
To run more freely in. 

SYLVIA. 

What dost thou tell me ? 

DAPHNE. 
Afterwards, when he heard that bitter news, 
I saw him swoon with agony; and on coming 
To life again, he flung away in fury, 
To kill himself; and doubtless, it is done. 

SYLVIA. 
Ah me i And thou not follow him ! Let us go ; 
Oh, let us find him ! If he would have died 
To follow me, he must live now to save me. 






118 



DAPHNE. 
I followed him with all the speed I had 
But in his swiftness he soon disappeared 
And I went seeking him through all his haunts, 
In vain. Where wouldst thou go, having no trace ? 

SYLVIA. 
But he will die, unless we find him ; die 
Alas ! by his own hand. 

DAPHNE. 

Cruel! and wouldst thou 
Snatch from him then the glory of that deed, 
To finish it thyself ? Wouldst thou dispatch him ? 
And does it seem an injury done to thee, 
That he should die by any hand but thine ? 
Now, be appeased ; for howsoe'er he dies, 
He dies for thee: the blow is thine at last. 

SYLVIA. 
Alas ! thou piercest me to my heart's core. 



119 

The grief he gives me now, doubles my bitterness 

In thinking upon all that cruelty 

Which I called honesty: and I called it right, 

But 'twas indeed too hard and rigorous. 

I see it now, and suffer for it. 

DAPHNE. 

What ! 
What do I hear ? Dost thou take pity, — thou ? 
Thou feel at heart one touch of tenderness ! 
And see — what weep ! Thou weeping ! thou the 

proud one ! 
Oh wonder ! What then are these tears of thine ? 
Real ! And tears of love ! 

SYLVIA. 

Not love, but pity. 

DAPHNE. 
Pity as surely is love's harbinger. 
As lightning is the thunder's. 



120 

CHORUS. 

Thus it is, 
When love would steal into a virgin heart, 
Where sour-faced honesty would have barred him 

out, 
He takes the habit and the countenance 

Of his true servant and sweet usher, Pity, 
And so beguiles the simple mistress there, 
And gets within. 

DAPHNE. 

Nay, what are all these tears, 
That flow away so fast ? Sylvia, thou'rt silent. 
Thou lovest? 'Tis so. Lovest; and in vain. 
Oh mighty power of Love ! just chastisement 
Dost thou send down on this thy unbeliever. 
Wretched Amyntas ! like the bee art thou 
Who pierces as he dies, and leaves his life 
Within another's wound. Thy death at last 



121 

Has smitten the hard heart, which thou couldst never 

Touch when alive. If thou art now a shade, 

(As I believe) wandering about thy naked 

And poor unburied limbs, behold her tears, 

Behold them and rejoice ; loving in life, 

Beloved in death. If 'twas thy destiny 

To be beloved then only, and this cruel one 

Would sell her pity at no meaner price, 

'Tis paid ; and thou hast bought her love with dying, 

CHORUS. 
Dear price to give; useless and shameless one 
To take! 

SYLVIA. 
Oh ! that I were but able with my love 
To purchase back his life, or with my life 
Itself; if he indeed is dead. 

DAPHNE. 

Oh wise 
Too late ! Oh pity, come at last in vain ! 



122 



SCENE II. 

MESSENGERS, CHORUS, SYLVIA, AND 
DAPHNE. 

MESSENGER. 
I am so overcome with pity and horror, 
That wheresoe'er I turn, I cannot see 
Or hear a thing that does not start and shake me. 

CHORUS. 
Who is he 
That brings such trouble in his looks and voice ? 

MESSENGER. 
I bring terrible news. Amyntas 
Is dead. 

SYLVIA. 
Alas ! what says he ? 
MESSENGER. 
The noblest shepherds of the woods is dead, 



123 



He that was such a gentle spirit, so graceful, 
And so beloved by all the nymphs and muses ; 
He in his prime is dead; and what a death! 

CHORUS. 
Tell us, I pray thee, all ; that we may weep 
His loss with thee, — his loss, and our own loss. 

SYLVIA 
Ah me ! why shake I thus, and stand aloof! 
I dare not hear ! I dare not hear ; and must. 
Oh my hard heart, my hard and impious heart, 
Why dost thou shrink! Come, meet the terrible 

darts 
Which this man carries in his tongue; 
And shew them now thy fierceness. — 
Shepherd, I come for part of that sad pain 
Thou promisest to us assembled here ; 
It fits me more than thou perhaps mayst think ; 
And I shall take it from thee as a thing 
Most due to me. Now keep thou nothing back. 



124 



MESSENGER. 
Nymph, I can well believe thee; for that hapless one 
Finished his life in calling on thy name. 

DAPHXE. 
Now opens this dread history. 

MESSENGER. 

I was standing 
In middle of a hill, where I had spread 
Some nets of mine ; when close to me I saw 
Amyntas pass me ; looking, not as usual, 
But strangely altered and disturbed. I rose, 
And making speed came up with him. He stopped, 
And said, " Ergastus, there is a great pleasure 
Which thou mayst do me : 'tis to come with me 
And witness something I am going to do : 
But I must have thee first swear solemnly 
That thou wilt stand aloof, and by no means 
Obstruct me in my work." I, as he wished, 
(For who could have foreseen so wild an accident ?) 



125 

Made fearful adjurations, and invoked 

Pallas, Priapus, and Pomona, and Pan, 

And midnight Hecate. Then did he resume 

His way, and took me to the edge of the hill, 

From which in dizzy juttings and rude crags, 

Without a path, for never foot could make one, 

There drops into the valley a precipice. 

We stopped, — I looking down below, and feeling 

Such headlong fear in me, that suddenly 

I drew me back, — he seeming that small space 

To smile and be serene of countenance ; 

A look, which doubled my security. 

He then addressed me thus : " See that thou tell 

The nymphs and shepherds what thou shalt behold.' 7 

Then looking up, " If I had thus," said he, 

I At my command the ravening and the teeth 

Of greedy wolves, as I have now the crags, 

My death should be like her's who was my life. 



126 

My wretched limbs should all be torn and scattered, 
As they did tear, alas! that delicate body. 
But since they cannot, since the heavens deny- 
Even this welcome death to my desire, 
I must betake me from the world 
Another way, which if not what it should be, 
Will join my fate to her's, at least more soon. 
Sylvia, I follow thee; I come 
To bear thee company, if thou wilt not scorn it : 
And I should die content, 
Could I at heart be certain that my coming 
Would trouble thee no longer as 'twas wont, 
And that thy scorn was ended with my life. 
Sylvia, I follow thee ! I come !* So saying, 
Down from the height he went 
Sheer overhead; and I remained, all ice. 

DAPHNE. 
Wretched Amyntas ! 



127 



SYLVIA. 

Oh my heart ! 

CHORUS. 

But why 
Did'st thou not stop him ? did thy oath restrain 
thee ? 

MESSENGER. 
Oh no : — as soon as I discerned his mad 
And impious project, I disdained all oaths, 
Vain at such times as these, and ran to hold him ; 
When, as his luckless destiny would have it, 
I caught by the scarf of silk, which girt him round, 
And which, unable to resist the weight 
And force of his wild body, snapped in my hand. 

CHORUS. 
And what became of the unhappy corse ? 

MESSENGER, 
I know not. I was struck so full of horror, 



128 

That I had not the heart to look again, 
For fear of seeing him all dashed in pieces. 

SYLVIA. 
Now I am stone indeed, 
Since this news kills me not. 
Ah ! if the fancied death 
Of her who scorned him so, 
Bereft him of his life, 
Just reason is it now 
That this most certain death 
Of him who loved me so, 
Should take my life from me. 
And if it cannot take me 
With sorrow or with steel, 
This scarf, this scarf of his, 
Which not without a cause 
Did follow not the ruin 
Of it's lamented lord, 



129 

Shall wreak it's destined vengeance 
On my most impious cruelty 
For his most bitter end. 
Unhappy scarf which girdled, 
That kind, departed heart, 
Be patient for a little 
Within this hateful bosom, 
Whence thou shalt soon re-issue 
To be my pain and punisher. 
I should, I should have been 
Amyntas's companion 
In life; but since I would not, 
r Tis thou shalt join me with him 
Among the shades infernal. 

CHORUS. 
Unhappy me, take comfort. 
'Tis fortune's doing this, and not thy fault. 



130 

SYLVIA. 
Oh shepherds, do ye weep? 
And are your tears for me ? 
I do deserve no pity, 
For I was used to none. 
If ye lament the loss 
Of that most perfect heart, 
Then is j T our grief too small 
For such a height of sorrow. 
And thou, O Daphne, lock 
Thy tears up in thy heart, love, 
If they are spent for me. 
And yet for pity too, 
Not of myself, but one 
That did deserve it all. 
I pray thee let us go, oh ! let us go, 
And gather up his limbs and bury them. 
'Tis this alone restrains me 
From dying instant death, 



131 

This office will I pay him, 
The only one I can 
For all the love he bore me. 
And though this impious hand 
Will stain the sweet religion of the work, 
Yet any work it did 
Would still be dear to him 
Who loved me past all doubt, 
And shewed it with his dying. 
DAPHNE. 
I will assist thee in the work ; but do not 
Speak thus of dying afterwards. 

SYLVIA. 

'Twas for myself till now 
I lived, and for my fierceness. 
What now remains of life, 
I wish to live for him ; 
And oh ! if not for him, 
g2 



132 

At least For his unhappy, 

And cold, and mangled corse. 

So long then, and no more, 

Shall I remain on earth, 

But finish at one moment 

His obsequies, and my own life. Now, Shepherd, 

Which is the path that leads into the valley 

Where that hill terminates. 

MESSENGER. 

The one before thee. 
The place itself is but a little way. 

DAPHNE. 
I will conduct and guide thee : I know it well. 

SYLVIA. 
Shepherds ; farewell ! Farewell, ye plains; Farewell, 
Ye rivers, and ye woods! 

MESSENGER. 

She speaks as though 
She took a last departure. 



133 



CHORUS. 

That which Death loosens, thou, O Love, dost bind, 
Friend thou of peace, as he is friend of war, 
Over his triumphs act thou triumpher ; 
And leading forth two lovely souls well joined, 
Openest a face of heaven upon mankind. 
So dost thou fit thee for our earthly star. 
They wrangle not above. Thou, coming down 
Mak'st mild the human spirit, and dost ease 
From the only inward hatred, all that own 
Thy reign : dost ease a thousand madnesses : 
And with thy heavenly touching sendest round 
Our smooth and quickened sphere with an eternal 
sound. 



137 



ACT FIFTH. 



«WA»X.'V^ 



SCENE I. 



CHORUS AND ELPINO. 

ELPINO. 

Truly the law, with which imperial Love 

Governs eternally, is not a harsh 

Nor crooked law ; and wrongly are his works 

Condemned, being full of a deep providence. 

Oh with what art, and through what unknown paths 

Conducts he man to happiness ; and when 

His servant thinks himself plunged down to the 

depths 
Of evil ; lifts him with a sparkling hand, 



138 

And places in his amorous paradise ! 

Lo, here, Arayntas casting himself down 

Precipitous, ascends at once to the top 

Of all his joy. O fortunate Amyntas ! 

By so much more the happier, as thou wert 

Unhappy! Thine example gives me hope, 

That that most fair and unaffectionate thing 

Under whose smile of pity is concealed 

An iron for my soul, may heal at last 

With a true pity what her false has wounded. 

CHORUS. 
He who comes hither is the wise Elpino. 
I hear him talking of the dead Amyntas, 
As though he were alive, calling him blest 
And fortunate. Ah! thus it is with lovers, 
We think the lover fortunate who dies, 
And so finds pity in his lady's heart; 
And this we call a Paradise and long for! 



139 

With what light bounty does the winged god 

Content his servants. — Art thou then, Elpino, 

So miserable too, that thou esteemest 

The miserable end of poor Amyntas 

A blessing, and would'st reach the same thyself! 

ELPINO. 
Be joyful, friends, it was a false report 
That told us of his death. 

CHORUS. 

O blessed news ! 
But did he not then cast himself from the hills ? 

ELPINO. 
He did ; but 'twas a cast so fortunate, 
That in the shape of death, a vital joy 
Received him in its arms: and now he lies 
Lapt in the bosom of his lady adored, 
Who is as kind as she was hard, and kisses 
With her own mouth the sorrow from his eyes. 



140 

My business now is with Montano her father, 
To bring him where they are; for his consent 
Alone is wanting to their mutual love. 

CHORUS. 
Alike their age, their gentle blood alike, 
And now their wishes harmonize. The old man 
Has wished, I know, for grandchildren, to make 
A happy circle round about his age ; 
So that his wishes must conform with theirs- 
But oh, Elpino, what kind God or chance 
Kescued Amyntas from that perilous leap ? 

ELPINO. 
I shall delight to tell ye. Hear, then, hear, 
What with these eyes I saw. I was in front 
Of my own cave, which lies beside the hill, 
Just where it parts on meeting with the valley, 
And makes a kind of lap. I was conversing 
With Thyrsis upon one, who in her net 



141 

Him first, and afterwards myself, took fast ; 
And I was saying how much I preferred 
My sweet captivity to his flight and freedom ; 
When suddenly there was a cry in the air; 
And we beheld a man shoot headlong down 
From the top of the hill, and fall upon some bushes 
There grew on the hill side, just over head, 
A little queach of bushes and of thorns, 
Which being closely intertwisted, made 
A sort of flowering hurdle. 'Twas on that 
He pitched, before the rougher juts had hurt him ; 
And though he weighed it down, and so came 

rolling 
Almost before our feet, yet it had broken 
His fall enough to hinder it from killing. 
He was so much hurt however, that he lay 
An hour or more quite stunned and without sense. 
The sudden spectacle had struck us mute 



142 

With pity and horror seeing who it was ; 

But our conviction that he was not dead, 

And hopes to see him well, made the shock less. 

Thyrsis then gave me all the whole recount 

Of his sad story with its hopeless love ; 

And while we were endeavouring to revive him, 

Having, meanwhile sent for Alphesibceus 

To whom Apollo gave the art of healing, 

When he gave me the poet's harp and quill, 

Daphne and Sylvia who (as I found afterwards) 

Were searching for the body they thought dead, 

Arrived together; but when Sylvia recognised 

Amyntas, and beheld his beautiful cheeks 

So lovelily discoloured, that no violet 

Could pale more sweetly, it so smote on her, 

That she seemed ready to breathe out her soul. 

And then like a wild Bacchante, crying out 

And smiting her fair bosom, she fell down 



us 

Right on the prostrate body, face to face, 
And mouth to mouth. 

CHORUS. 
Did then no shame restrain 
Her who had been so hard and so denying? 

ELPINO. 
It is a feeble love that shame restrains ; 
A powerful one bursts through so weak a bridle. 
Her eyes appeared a fountain of sweet waters, 
With which she bathed his cold cheeks, moaningly 
Waters so sweet, that he came back to life, 
And opening his dim eyes, sent from his soul 
A dolorous " Ah me!" But that sad breath 
Which issued forth so bitterly, 
Met with the breath of his beloved Sylvia, 
Who with her own dear mouth gathered it up, 
And turned it all to sweet. 
But who could tell with what deliciousness 
H 



144 

They kept in that embrace, each of them sure 
Of Mother's life, and he at least made sure 
Of his long love returned, 
And seeing himself bound thus fast with her t 

CHORUS. 
And is Amyntas then so safe and sound, 
His life is in no danger? 

ELPINO. 

None whatever. 
He has some petty scratches, and his limbs 
Are somewhat bruised, but it will come to nothing, 
And nothing he accounts it. Happy he, 
To have given so great a proof of all his love, 
And now to have its sweets all set before him, 
Healing and heavenly food for his past toils. 
The Gods be with ye, friends : I must resume 
My way, and find Montano, the old man. 



U5 



CHORUS. 



I know not whether all the bitter toil, 

With which this lover to his purpose kept, 

And served, and loved, and sighed, and wept, 

Can give a perfect taste 

To any sweet soever at the last : 

But if indeed the joy 

Come dearer from annoy, 

I ask not, Love, for my delight, 

To reach that beatific height : 

Let others have that perfect cup: 

Me let my mistress gather up 

To the heart, where I would cling, 

After short petitioning; 

And let our refreshment be 

Relished with no agony ; 



146 

But with only pungent sweets, 
Sweet disdains, and sweet retreats; 
And warfare, such as still produces 
Heart-refreshing peace and truces. 



FINIS. 



H. Bryer, Printer, 
Bridge-street, Blackfriars; 



